Confluence
by hell-whim
Summary: Tragedy, media mixups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JoshDonna, AU S.5 --ON SEMI-PERMANENT HIATUS!
1. Prologue: What Kind of Day Has It Been

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** Inspired by the episode of MASH where the Army thinks that Pierce is dead. I was awake and bored, and this is what came out. Dialogue ganked from _Gaza_ and _Memorial Day_ where appropriate. 8:15 AM US/Eastern 3:15 PM Asia/Jerusalem. Chapter titles are taken from WW episode titles; some may be slightly altered. I honestly don't know where this is going, but hang on. Don't expect regular updates. School cuts in, so do my other fandoms. I'll write when I find the inspiration.

**Prologue: What Kind of Day Has It Been**

**Prologue: What Kind of Day Has It Been**

_Josh tilts his head back, squinting into the harsh Israeli sun. Sweat pours down his back in uncomfortable rivulets, soaking into his jeans and sticking his shirt to his skin._

"…_briefing books should put you right out."_

"_Good idea. I should get somebody to hit me over the head with one."_

_Dust floats in lazy clouds across the horizon, herds of swirling devils crossing the dirt path and hindering the progress of cars and mules alike. Everything is bright and blurry across the yard, and Josh pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes with a grimace._

_Congressmen add ambience, though he wishes they'd just shut up._

"_They're a displaced population."_

"Displaced_? The Palestinians moved what—15, 20 miles? Did you ever move? I grew up in Dayton."_

"_They're still refugees."_

_Andi and Fitz join at last._

"_You know," the admiral remarks casually, "after 50 years, one option might be to get over it."_

_Josh grins at this, keeping his eyes trained on the checkpoint gates and the two figures near it._

"_They look cute together," Andi observes, leaning contentedly out from the interior of an SUV. Josh cuts his eyes at her, refusing to take the bait. He takes a swig from the water bottle in his hand, droplets flinging onto the parched ground and peppering the front of his shirt with darkened specks._

"_How long 'til we go back?"_

"_Can't stand the heat, son?"_

_Fitzwallace claps him hard on the shoulder, and Josh winces at the strength. The admiral chuckles at him and moves toward the second SUV. Josh makes a face at his back, and Andi laughs._

"_Shut up."_

- - -

"CJ!"

"CJ!"

**8:37 AM**

"CJ!"

**Day of the Explosion**

"Hang on!" CJ snaps, stuffing the earpiece in, hands flailing in a frantic motion of stop. "All right, I have to listen in while I'm speaking; I'll tell you everything I know as I learn it!"

"CJ!"

"At approximately 3:15 PM, local Israeli time, a bomb went off at the side of a road at the Erez Checkpoint in Gaza, hitting the last of three black Suburbans carrying members of the Congressional—"

"CJ! Is anyone dead?"

"I-I don't—I don't know! We're getting…Yes, we're getting preliminary reports from unidentified Israeli sources—"

"Is anyone dead?"

"I don't—"

- - -

"_Donna!"_

_The orange scarf flutters around her face as she laughs, green-tinted sunglasses setting off her alabaster skin. Josh cups his hands to his mouth._

"_DONNA!"_

_She casts one petulant glance over her shoulder._

"_And they say looks can't kill."_

"_Shut up," he sighs, shading his face with one grime-covered hand. Andi laughs again. "DONNA!"_

_She gives him the full-on death glare this time, and he winces again. Colin glances his way as well, leaning in to whisper something in Donna's ear. She giggles._

_That angry red-hot feeling in his gut is only the humidity._

"_DONNA!"_

- - -

"All right, I've got some new information."

"CJ, is anyone—?"

"Have they confirmed—"

"—retaliatory measures—"

"Still just the three confirmed," CJ interrupts.

"Was it a suicide bomber?"

"It was not a suicide attack," she says firmly. "I've already…"

"Are they—?"

"—two more from—"

"No claims of…"

The clamor grows, oddly proportionate to the throbbing in her head.

"HEY!"

Silence reigns suddenly.

"Is this working for you?" she asks, anger flooding her tone. "Now if you'll ask your questions one at a time like, oh, _I don't know_, every _other_ time we've done this the past five years _maybe_ you'll come away from this with something to write and maybe I'll still be speaking to one or two of you when I climb down from here."

She sighs, relishing the fleeting calm.

"Yes, Katie."

"Is the administration considering military action in response to today's attack?"

"The immediate focus is on gathering information on who might have been responsible and bringing them to justice."

"Will military action be more likely because a member of the White House staff was on the trip?"

Her voice hardens around the edges, and she graces Danny with one of her rare glares of rage.

"I'm not going to let you take me down that path. Steve."

- - -

"_DONNA!"_

"_Your boss is a little commanding," Colin says, accent rolling his words through the air. Donna refuses to look over her shoulder again._

"_Yeah, he is," she sighs. "Look, it was really great meeting you and seeing all those things. I never would've—"_

"_DONNA!"_

"_You should probably go," Colin nods, throwing a quick glance at Josh._

"_Yeah," Donna sighs again. After an awkward moment of hesitation, she sticks out her hand. "Well, it really was wonderful to meet you."_

"_You as well," the photographer replies, kissing her knuckles. "Goodbye, Donna Moss."_

"_DONNA!"_

"_I'm coming!" she shouts back irritably. "Bye, Colin. You should come to the White House some time."_

"_I will," he promises with a wink._

"_DONNA!"_

"_I'm _coming_!"_

- - -

"CJ—"

"Hang _on_, Danny!" she practically snarls, digging the earpiece in. "Chris was first."

"CJ—"

"I said _Chris_!"

There is fleeting silence in the press room.

"CJ, has _anything_ been confirmed?"

"We know that there are fatalities," CJ nods. "I've just been handed a memo from Leo's office—"

"AP's reporting five!"

"I've still only got three confirmed here," she sighs. "Two unidentified bodies. No names yet. Yes, Sandy!"

"CJ, what does the President plan for retaliation?"

"Well, I don't know, but I'll run right down to the Sit Room and find out for you," CJ says dryly.

"Will the president ask the Israelis to carry out any military retaliation?"

"We're strongly urging Israel and the Palestinian Authority to refrain from doing anything to further enflame tensions in the region. Steve."

"Will there even _be_ retaliation?"

"A CODEL envoy was bombed. You bet your ass there'll be retaliation."

"CJ!"

- - -

_She walks leisurely to the cars, head held high._

"_He was cute," Andi grins. "You enjoy your break?"_

"_No," Donna sighs, casting Josh one deeply hate-filled glare. "It's not what you think. I spent the whole time getting nagged."_

"_I don't nag," Josh pouts._

"_So how was he?" Andi asks, giving Donna a significant poke. The women seem to be ignoring Josh's presence._

"_Couldn't tell ya," the aide sighs, giving her smirking boss another scathing look. "His name is Colin Ayres, he's a photojournalist, and I'm betting he would've been _great _in bed if certain irritating persons were not present at _all times_."_

"_He's Irish," Josh scoffs._

"_My father's Irish," Donna returns crossly. Josh doesn't even have the decency to look sheepish._

"_Let's go, folks! We're moving out!"_

"_Whatever," Josh replies, that damnable smirk still in place. Donna whacks him not-so-lightly with her overlarge purse as she passes._

"_Come _on_, Josh. You're holding up the motorcade."_

"_Motorcade," Josh mutters, closing Andi's door as she slides onto the leather seat. "It's three damn SUVs, Donna! That's not a _motorcade_."_

"_Black cars?" she says to Fitz, ignoring him again. "Good choice for this climate."_

"—_barely even _dignified _as a—"_

"_Just get in the damn SUV, Joshua!"_

_Fitz laughs, holding open the door for Donna._

"_Everybody's this angry now, what must it have been like before air conditioning?"_

- - -

Toby paces back and forth, between CNN and MSNBC, between sanity and psychosis, between depression and elation.

"Are you sure?" he says into the cell phone he grips tightly in one hand. The other is at his mouth, teeth gnawing worriedly at the thumbnail.

"_Toby, I'm _fine_,"_ Andi assures him, sounding exhausted and scared and too far away.

"You should probably get checked out, just in case."

"_I'm _fine_. Toby…"_

He can hear the tears in her voice, and he doesn't want to know.

"_Toby, they were—"_

"No," he says firmly. "I've got AP screaming about ten bodies, Reuters telling me that Israel's jumping on the offense, the president in the Sit Room with his finger hovering on the nukes, and I am _not_ going to listen to you tell me that Josh and Donna are dead!"

The office around him goes suddenly quiet.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he shouts, pulling the phone away for a moment. "Get the hell back to your jobs; this isn't a circus!"

The scurrying begins anew; Ginger bowls over Will as he races into the bullpen.

"I just heard—I've been trying to—"

He sees the phone in Toby's hands, the terror in his eyes, and CJ on the television behind him.

"Is Andi—is she—?"

"She's okay," Toby says.

"What about—?"

"We don't know."

"_Toby—"_

"Get the hell on the plane, Andi, and get home now."

The words are terse and short; he hangs up soon after. Best not to linger, not to tell her how much he loves her, how happy he is she's alive, or they'll just end up fighting again.

He and Will stare at each other across the cluttered space, frantic energy vibrating the air around them. They are a momentary oasis in a world of chaos.

"How long's she been in there?" Will says, gesturing with a jut of his chin to the TV behind Toby's shoulder. The older man turns and cranks up the volume.

"_Again, Mark, what I'm getting confirmed officially is from unnamed sources—"_

"_AP's reporting five bodies, CJ._ _Has the president commented?"_

"_Yes, of course, Mark, I have his comments right here, for despite the fact that I have been in _here _with _you _for the past three hours, I found a way to astrally project myself to the Oval Office and ask the president for his opinion."_

"_So that's a _no_?"_

"We need more information," Toby sighs. "Feel like being deputized again?"

"I do," Will sighs, tossing his coat over a chair. "Where d'you need me?"

"Phones."

Toby tosses him a cell and a list of numbers.

"I wanna know where they are _right now_."

- - -

_He clambers into the SUV, Donna scooting to the far side._

"_You can't preemptively call shotgun," he grumbles._

"_Josh, he's an admiral and the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs," Donna hisses at him. "He can do whatever he wants."_

"_Damn right I can," Fitz says, climbing into the front seat. He looks over his shoulder, grinning at the other occupants. "You comfy back there, Josh?"_

"_Yes, sir," Josh drawls. "Congressmen?"_

"_No complaints," Korb nods, failing to conceal his smile. As the SUV rumbles into motion, his Cheshire grin turns to the only female occupant of the car. "So, Donna…that was quite some reporter you were getting acquainted with."_

"_Wasn't he charming?" Donna beams._

"_Sure," Josh replies, sarcasm dripping from his every syllable. "In a bodice-ripping, Heathcliff-on-the-moor, I'm-too-sexy-for-my-camera sort of way…"_

_She punches him on the arm, and Fitz laughs._

"_So what _do _photographers say in the digital age," he says, winking at Donna, "now that the old 'Come up and see my darkroom' line has gone the way of the dodo?"_

_Josh beats her to the punch this time, draping one arm over her shoulders with that irritating smirk._

"_They offer their high speed internet connec—"_

- - -

"Yes, I'm now getting confirmations that they've IDed the last two…"

She closes her eyes, listening close.

"AP and our as-yet-unidentified Israeli sources are saying that there are five confirmed fatalities, and I've just been told that the families are being notified."

"It's been _six hours_, CJ, can't you give us—?"

"I'm aware of how long it's been, Chris. I've only been standing up here the most of the time."

"CJ, can you—?"

"I can't tell you the names until I know them, Phil."

- - -

_A fireball of orange and black lights the midday sky. The car flips up and over, an impressive arc as it twirls, like some kind of demented football spinning with the laces, and smashes to the ground in a terrifying quake._

_She barely registers that the scream is her own._

- - -

Carol scurries from the shadows and drops a Post-It on top of the memos. CJ snatches it up, having long since abandoned the earpiece.

"Okay!" she shouts, clearing the noise. "I've got confirmation right here that the president has contacted the families of the victims, and I can now release the names."

Toby and Will appear in the upper press room, faces frozen, knowing what's coming but so damn powerless to stop it.

"Sources are confirming five fatalities, all Americans and members of the Congressional Delegation. They are as follows: Admiral Percy Fitzwallace, Congressmen Thomas Korb and Daniel DeSantos and—"

She reads the next names before she speaks them, and something catches in her throat. A sick, squirmy feeling starts to work its way from her gut to her throat.

"CJ?"

Danny's voice is quiet, worried, like he knows, like he can possibly—

She looks up, sees Toby, begs him in silence to tell her it's wrong, it's a lie, it's a really bad joke being played by mean, mean people. He gives one small shake of his head, and she's gripping the podium.

"Senior Advisor and De…Deputy Chief of Staff Josh Lyman, and…and Senior White House Assistant Donna…Moss."

The constant clicking of flashbulbs is like the buzzing of incessant insects.

"These are all…they've been confirmed and…"

She twitches, trying to remember why she should care, what she should be saying.

"The president's prayers are with each of their families tonight."

She stumbles away from the podium, one hand pressing to her forehead.

"I have to…"

Toby's already running from the room.

"CJ!"

"CJ, are you—?"

"Does the president—?"

"CJ!"

Their questions haunt her into the hallway.


	2. Chapter 1: The Benign Prerogative

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** Wow. Thank you so much everyone for your amazing support. I'm going to try to update this on a regular basis, on every Sunday after the new WW episode airs in my time zone. I'd very much enjoy it if someone with good grammatical/technical skills would volunteer to beta read these chapters for me. I'm terrible at catching my own mistakes. Again, thanks so much for the support and reviews.

**Chapter One: The Benign Prerogative**

"I spend half my day reading the damn memos; I still have _no_ idea what the hell he's talking about."

**7:32 AM**

"You hear from Josh and Donna?"

**Before the Explosion**

"Yes," Leo sighs, adding an eye roll. "I get daily, interminable emails that I have absolutely no time to read. I told them just to brief me, but Donna's got to write a whole damn _novel_."

They turn together from the lobby, going towards the Oval.

"You hear from Andi?"

"Concision's not her problem. Every day the same four little words: _Go see your children_. Before e-mail it was a lot harder for your ex-wife to hock you from 6,000 miles away."

Toby leans against the door, letting his weight push it open. Leo laughs appreciatively as they enter the Communications bullpen.

"Are they with Andi's mom?"

Toby gives him a grimace, acknowledging CJ with a short nod. She hovers beside his doorway, restless and ready to start.

"The very definition of an approach-avoidance situation."

He laughs again, giving the two a quick wave as he exits.

"See you at Staff in ten!"

The halls are nice and extra crowded today; he's jostled by faceless staffers on the twenty-step walk to his office.

"Morning, Leo."

"Morning, Terri."

"It's Greta."

He barrels through the door, throws some papers at ever-present Margaret.

"Whatever."

- - -

"_Take a walk with us."_

_He looks up from the piles of work with a start. It's past eleven on a school night; everyone should've gone home._

"_Mr. President," he blinks, rising quickly from his chair. "I didn't know you were still—"_

"_Come take a walk with us," Leo repeats, gesturing to the forms and papers casually. "That stuff can wait."_

_He grimaces, dropping the pen._

"_I should really—"_

"_Don't make me order you," Jed says, the smile warm. Josh grins back briefly._

"_Yes, sir."_

_He takes a quick sip from his stale coffee and shrugs into his coat as Leo steps back._

"_Is there something you need to talk to me about?"_

- - -

"It's just a grapefruit, Leo."

"Would you get off my back?"

Margaret scowls. He reflects briefly on how much more terrifying it is to have Margaret angry with him than the President.

"I'll have an apple, alright?"

"Fine," she snaps, dropping the files onto his desk. "OEOB called. Will wants to talk about the V.P.'s visit to Manhattan."

"Push back as far as you can," he sighs. "Anything else?"

"You got a package from Josh and Donna."

"Yeah?"

He slips on his glasses, already absorbed in security and briefings.

"Should I bring it—?"

"Just toss it on the pile. I'll get to it later."

- - -

"_You look tired, Josh."_

_He grins, shoving both hands into his pockets._

"_Yeah, this week's been kinda…"_

_He makes a vague gesture in the air before their bodies._

"_It's been a long day."_

"_It's been a long _year_," Leo scoffs. Josh gives a nod, eyes on the ground before his feet._

"_Listen, Josh…"_

_Bartlet stops with a sigh, digging a cigarette from inside his jacket._

"_I know this past year hasn't exactly been easy for any of us, and least of all, it seems, for you."_

"_Well, sir, I—"_

"_After that whole Carrick mess, we kept you off the job, and—"_

"_I deserved it, sir," Josh replies quickly, resolute. "I screwed up on that, and I just—"_

"_That wasn't completely your fault," Leo interrupts. "And anyway, Josh, the president and I feel like we crucified you for it."_

"_Leo, you guys were just—"_

"_It doesn't matter," Bartlet says, lighting up. "We still want to make it up to you."_

"_Josh, we want you to go with Andi and Fitzwallace to Gaza, as part of the CODEL."_

- - -

"We're not cutting cotton subsidies."

"But, Leo—"

"BONNIE!"

She scrambles past, tossing a blue folder at him. He catches it in one hand, flipping the cover to make sure it's the right one.

"Thanks! And no," he tells her firmly. "We just went through a whole trade thing. I'm not gonna have Josh reopen that exploding can of worms ten minutes after he gets off the plane. And since when is this under the purview of the N.S.C.?"

"Maybe since heroin traffic started spiking in Europe."

He turns, raising his eyebrows as they pause before the coffee machine. Kate Harper, his irritating little shadow, is too damn cranky for his teetering mild mood. He catches a glimpse of Toby and CJ down the hall, a brief exclamation of conversation.

"CJ, I'm not from Minnesota."

"For the sake of argument!"

"Not even for the sake of—"

"What's your point?" he asks Kate, moving the opposite direction in quick strides. Things have been strained in Operations for a few days, with Toby's fuse lit from both ends. They'll all be happier when Donna's back.

"When Afghan farmers can't afford to grow cotton, when they can't compete in their own market with cheap U.S. textiles produced from subsidized crops, they plant something else."

He likes that she has to sprint a bit to keep up with him.

"Margaret, I still need the new OMF stats."

"Toby's got them," she replies, pressing another stamp firmly in place. "Oh, you got another package from—"

"I'll deal with them later," he says, entering his office. Kate bounces on her heels peevishly behind him.

"They grow poppies, Leo," she continues.

"Imagine my surprise."

"Fields and fields," she glares. "Like someone colorized Nebraska."

"Well…"

He sighs, drops into his chair, and then a grin flits across his leathered face.

"Maybe we should subsidize poppies."

She glares harder, crossing her arms, and Leo reflects on how much he misses Nancy and Fitz. A regular Rat Pack they were.

"Leo, I'm _serious_. If we don't start—"

The shapes rushing past his door are blurrier than usual, steps louder, voices more tense, and he jumps when that damn piece of plastic on his hip starts its sharp beeping.

"Hang on…"

He looks down at the garbled, nearly meaningless message. Just Toby's number. A moment later, Kate's goes off, and Leo stands.

CJ appears in the doorway, flushed and breathless.

"Leo," she says.

"What happened?"

She takes a few rapid breaths, hand covering the stitch in her side.

"Explosion in Gaza. The CODEL. Some fatalities."

The floor drops from beneath them.

"Josh? Donna?"

"It just happened. That's all I know."

- - -

"_So you feel guilty about treating me bad after the Carrick thing, and to make it up to me, you're going to send me on a trip halfway across the world with Toby's ex-wife, the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and a bunch of congressmen I just got done steamrolling in a trade deal?"_

_Jed grins._

"_Y'know, it sounded a lot better when Leo said it."_

_Josh chuckles, coming to a stop. Leo and Jed stop with him, testing the waters. Dangling their feet._

"_You're really serious. You wanna send a Jewish guy to Palestinian-occupied areas on a governmental mission?"_

"_You'd act as an advisor to the CODEL," Leo nods, glossing over that politically-correct grey area. "A sign that the administration is committed to peace in the Middle East, but that this is purely a fact-finding mission. You'll be there to remind them that while the President considers this important, these aren't actual negotiations."_

_Josh nods, absorbing it._

"_You interested?"_

"_I serve at the pleasure of the president," he grins. The look sobers quickly, going nervous. "I just have one thing. Can I bring Donna?"_

- - -

He questions it all the way down to the Sit Room.

"Are they sure? Are they _really_ sure?"

"The footage's all over CNN. They're saying three dead so far," Kate nods. "FOX picked it up twenty minutes later; AP's got guys on the ground that were with the convoy."

"What about our guys?"

"FBI's coordinating with State to get some agents on the ground right away," Leo nods.

"How the hell did this happen, Leo?"

He hasn't looked this lost since they killed Tolliver.

"I don't know, Mr. President," Leo replies quietly.

They're beeped in on Leo's palm.

"Ten-hut!"

"Someone tell me what the hell happened and whose ass we're gonna kick for it."

No one bothers to sit back down.

- - -

"_What's up with you and Donna?"_

"_What? Nothing. _Nothing_," he says quickly. "Donna and I are just—we're just friends, Leo. Just normal, average, everyday…"_

_He trails off, grinning sheepishly at Leo's look of someone's-gone-a-little-psycho._

"_Nothing's up."_

"_She just seemed pissed at you earlier."_

"_Oh, that."_

_He makes a wavering, grand gesture._

"_She wanted me to go to Ryan's going-away party."_

"_Ryan your intern?"_

"_Former intern. Works for McKenna now."_

"_Wow."_

_Leo laughs, loud and sharp as a bark._

"_Your week really has sucked, huh?"_

"_Yeah," Josh sighs, studying the concrete._

_There's silence, uncertainty._

_Then, "Donna wants to do more. In her job."_

_He kicks at a random bit of gravel, hands shoved deep in his pockets._

"_Thing is, she really _can't_. It's not that she—I mean, Donna can pretty much do _anything _she sets herself to, but…"_

_He sighs, leans against a column when they stop._

"_There's no future in this job, Leo. She'll never be more than my assistant if she stays here."_

"_And…?"_

_He keeps his voice soft, keeps the tone even. This is important to Josh, and so he'll listen._

"_And I don't want that for her. But I don't want to lose her, either."_

_Leo grins, hitting Josh's arm lightly._

"_Didn't I tell you to get it together?"_

"_Yeah," Josh says, chuckling. "A year ago. This is progress, right?"_

_Leo can only smile and laugh. It's there, but he doesn't need to say it just yet._

- - -

"Leo?"

"Yeah…" he says, dazed.

"Do you want me to…?"

"No," he whispers. Then, louder, "No. I should do it."

She watches, face of unfamiliar pity, as he levers himself out of the creaking chair. They move slowly through the adjoining door, a parade of shock and gloom.

Charlie opens the portico door. Jed sees them; his face goes cold and dark.

"Mr. President…"

Too thick, he swallows hard. Something's happened.

"Charlie, would you excuse us?"

Silent, submissive, dead to it all, Charlie nods barely once as he exits the room.

"What is it?" Jed asks.

"Sir, we've just gotten confirmation on the last two bodies," Leo says, robotic. "That brings the total up to five."

"Jesus," he exhales, looking down. He builds himself up, waiting the essential transition from Jed to Commander-in-Chief. "Who?"

Leo opens his mouth, but nothing comes. His face, a map of the world, is a diagram of desolation in the late-afternoon sunlight. Ashen skin, sunken cheeks, hanging shoulders. He's not ready to say it yet.

"Sir," Kate steps up. "Sir, we've received confirmation from several credible Israeli sources that—"

"Who's dead?"

She sighs.

"Admiral Fitzwallace, Congressmen Korb and DeSantos, and…"

She casts one quick glance to Leo, his glass-fragile figure swaying slightly.

"Oh God…"

He knows. He knows, but he doesn't want to.

"Sir, Josh Lyman and Donna Moss are dead as well."

- - -

"_Those people are still in your office."_

"_Yeah."_

_He sighs, coming to a stop beside her desk._

"_What are they doing?"_

_She's shuffling mail and papers across the surface, eyes on the computer screen. He traces a pattern over the laminated wood._

"_Waiting by the sea."_

_She looks up then, taking in his careworn stance and tired, down-turned eyes._

"_Josh?"_

_His hand drifts to his pocket, pulling out something smallish and blue._

"_What's that?"_

_He tosses it onto the desk, scattering her neat little piles._

"_It's your diplomatic passport."_

_Her eyes light up, face breaking into a darling grin as she scoops the passport up._

"_You got me a seat on the—?"_

"_No," he sighs again. "I even had to give mine to McKenna. I'm not going."_

_She touches the back of his hand lightly._

"_Well, you tried."_

"_Yeah," he says quietly, glancing towards his office door. "Donna, we're going on a CODEL to the Middle East with Fitzwallace and Andi. No presidential handholding. We're gonna see what's going on and brief Leo about it."_

_He flips his hand over, squeezing her fingers in his._

"_What I did wrong wasn't breaking my word."_

_He lets go quickly, turning for his office before she can really see his face._

"_It was making a promise I couldn't keep in the first place."_

- - -

"I should…"

He stops, clears his throat, tries again.

"I should call her. First, I mean."

Jed nods slowly.


	3. Chapter 2: Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** Okay, I'm getting really sick of how Wells has fucked with the characters. Excuse the language, but I'm pretty pissed. Why the hell would Bruno work for a Republican (even one as likable as Vinick)? It just doesn't _fit_ with his personality. I mean, his whole liberal rant from Season 3 should've been evidence _enough_. Ugh. But I digress.  
Thank you all so much for the amazing outpouring of support. This really means a lot to me. On with the show.

**Author's Notes 2:** Oh, by the way, the last chapter was posted with an incorrect title. I've fixed that now.

**Chapter Two: Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc**

"So you're from Minnesota."

**8:11 AM**

"I'm really not, CJ."

**Before the Explosion**

"Yes you are."

"No, I'm—GINGER!"

"Sorry," she squeaks, running back in to trade folders. "Sorry, _these_ are the OMF stats."

"I noticed," Toby glowers. CJ lies in wait beside the copier, ready to pounce on Toby like a starving lioness on a gutted bison.

"You're from—"

"CJ, I'm not from Minnesota."

"For the sake of argument!" she says, hands on her hips.

"Not even for the sake of—"

"Toby, you've got Ed and Larry in twenty—"

"I'm going," he snaps.

"Toby, this is important!"

"I've got a 'robust economy' meeting," he replies. "You wanna judge which is more important?"

"It's a state-sanctioned website."

"So?"

"So this is gonna be the story today! I'm gonna be fielding questions all day about our bootlegging, anti-American, liberal elitist—"

He can't help the little half-smile when she crosses her arms and stamps her foot a bit.

"We need a policy, Toby. Standing around and hoping no one noticed seems to have run its course."

"I'll get into it, CJ."

"Will you?"

"Probably not," he shrugs. "But you gotta admit, my—"

"Oh my God…"

They turn back to Carol, her face frozen in horror as she looks up at one of the several TVs scattered through Operations.

"Carol, what's…?"

They turn as one, see the _Special Report_ at the same time.

"_We're just getting information now—a _very _shocking turn-of-events in Gaza this morning—"_

"Turn it up!"

A nameless intern rushes forward, presses hard on the volume. The newscaster's somber face, sorrowful voice fill the air.

"—_Congressional Delegation in Gaza was bombed only a few moments ago. We're getting preliminary reports on—"_

"God…"

CJ puts a hand to her heart, tears welling up.

"God, no…"

- - -

"_Just five more minutes."_

_CJ pouts, popping another Goldfish into her mouth. Beleaguered, Donna leafs wide-eyed through the gargantuan binder._

"_Who's Maura Leary?"_

"_Press Secretary from DeSantos's office. You doing press detail there?"_

"_I guess," Donna shrugs. She glances at Gail, sipping the last of her coffee. "Doesn't it feel weird eating those things with her in the room?"_

"_Nah," CJ replies. "But I like to pretend it's cannibalism when I put some of these in her bowl."_

_They share a little half-smile._

"_We've been in here too long."_

_Donna goes back to the binder, brow furrowed, chewing on the tip of a pencil._

"_I'm sure it won't all be getting faxes and answering questions," CJ offers. "I mean, Josh is going to sit in on the meetings, right?"_

"_Yeah," Donna nods. "He'll bring me along if I ask."_

_CJ bites down on her lip this time. She knows she shouldn't say it, but dammit if it hasn't been years and no one else has._

"_Donna, look. About Josh…"_

"_Oh, I get some people later," Donna cuts her off. A bit of been-there-done-that-burned-the-t-shirt. "I'm sure there'll be staffers that can do this stuff for me."_

_Her face is down-turned, hidden by the side of the monstrous binder. CJ bends subtly, trying to see just the edges of her face._

"_Weren't you getting a drink with that guy from the _Post-Intelligencer _or whatever?"_

"_The flight leaves early tomorrow," Donna says, an air of certain finality in her tone. She knows, now, exactly what CJ's trying to do._

"_Well, one drink couldn't have—"_

"_CJ, we might be in here a while."_

_The binder shifts a bit; she catches the glint of one stormy eye._

"_Let's not get into it, okay?"_

_CJ leans back in her chair, sighs in disappointment._

"_Fine."_

- - -

"Don't let them focus in on Josh and Donna," Leo says. "Every comment you make has to center on Commander-in-Chief. Don't let them get into emotions."

She yanks on her coat, nods as she sips a bit of stale coffee.

"This is the most important press conference of your life."

She grins, fleetingly.

"You've said that before, Leo."

"Well, I was wrong that time," he replies. They go still momentarily, staring. "I gotta go."

"Toby's on the phones," she tells him. "As soon as he knows, you'll know."

"I get the nasty feeling it's going to be the other way around," Leo sighs, exiting.

- - -

"_You prepared for Gaza?"_

"_Why'd you kill my Panama joke?"_

_Kate laughs, taking a shallow sip of her third water bottle._

"_Aren't you worried you'll have to pee soon?"_

"_Do you ever stop asking questions?"_

_He scowls at this new, unfamiliar adversary._

"_Y'know, if I wasn't very tired and worried about other matters, I'd—"_

"_Have an appropriately scathing and perfectly sarcastic comment to shut me up?"_

_The phone rings mercifully at that moment, and Josh glares. Kate slips back beneath her book, stupid little enigmatic smile pasted on._

"_You just made my list."_

_He picks up, tapping the wrong button at first._

"_Josh Lyman's office."_

"And Josh Lyman himself."

"_Hiya CJ. Look, Donna's M-I-A. I sent her your way—"_

"She's in here."

"_Good."_

_Josh gives a short exhale of relief._

"_Good."_

"Josh?"

"_Yeah?"_

"Something up?"

"_No. I'm good."_

_There is silence across the line; he can hear the ticking of an errant clock outside the office._

"You know what the holdup is?"

"_No," Josh sighs. "I've got a Deputy N.S.A. in here with me, though."_

_Kate gives a short, acknowledging wave at him, absorbed in her book._

"Ask her why we can't throw a little money at the system and do something about these damn false alarms."

_He covers the receiver loosely with one hand, leans his chin up._

"_CJ Cregg would like to know why we spend half our lives in unnecessary lockdowns."_

"_Better safe than sorry."_

_He rolls his eyes, goes back to the call._

"_Yeah, she's got nothing."_

_CJ gives an obligatory little chuckle, a more heart-felt sigh, and he hears the rustle of cloth and air as she hands the phone over._

"Did we knock someone else off the trip?"

"_So nice to know you're concerned about my safety, Donna."_

"Oh, shut up. Did I kick Jack Sosa off the trip?"

_He pinches the bridge of his nose, leans further back in the chair._

"_First of all, I have no idea who Jack Sosa is. Second, I already had this fight with Toby, CJ, my mother, and Andi Wyatt. Donna, we didn't kick anyone off: the president asked me to go; I asked to take you with."_

"We kicked a guy off. He's making voodoo dolls."

"_Yeah, but those never work, right?"_

"Josh—"

"_Hey, I got another line beeping. What do I do?"_

"Press hold and—"

_He hangs up, for once thankful that they're locked inside, the space of almost thirty feet between. Kate gives a little grin, eyes still riveted to the pages._

"_What're you smiling at?"_

"_You and Donna," she says. "I get what that reporter meant."_

"_You were talking to Danny about me?"_

"_I was asking him about the staff in general."_

_He sighs, pushes his chair from the desk. The pain blossoms from his eyes to the whole of his over-worked head._

"_Could've just asked _us_."_

_She shrugs._

"_Why'd you kill my Panama joke?"_

"_Wasn't funny."_

_He scowls at the water bottle she swings beneath his nose._

"_You sure you don't want some?"_

- - -

She bursts from the door, harassed and hair tousled.

"CJ—"

"Don't talk to me right now," she snaps. "CAROL!"

"She's on the phones," Nancy says, grabbing a folder from CJ's desk. "What do you need?"

"Coffee of any kind," she sighs. "And answers would be nice, too."

Will hurtles into the office, face peaked with relief and worry.

"Toby just got Andi."

"Is she—?"

"Fine," he says. "She was in the first car. But…"

"Don't tell me," CJ snaps again, sweeping from the office. "I can't be thinking about that when I'm in there."

"You're doing great!" he calls out, half-hearted, hollow.

She gives a harried wave of one hand, charging a return to the fray.

- - -

"_Because Josh Lyman sold you a bill of goods, and you _know _it! You both know it!"_

"_He—"_

_She licks her lips, takes a bellowing breath._

"_He's gone out of his way, CJ, to give me every opportunity he can!"_

_CJ laughs, falls back into her chair._

"_Okay."_

_And it's the condescending little tone that does her in, that smallest inflection of poor-uneducated-little-Donna-Moss-and-her-hopeless-school-girlishness, that subtle way that CJ narrows her eyes, lowers her voice, changes her mind._

"_What?" Donna snaps, fury roiling._

"_Nothing," CJ replies, picking up the binder again. "You're right, Donna. He's given you every opportunity."_

_If she wasn't so certain the tone was still there, she wouldn't be doing this._

"_Hasn't he?" she asks, hard and biting and CJ sets down the binder, looks so softly up at her that she—_

_Maybe it wasn't the tone._

"_CJ?"_

"_Donna…"_

_She sighs._

"_If he was giving you every opportunity, you'd have grown out of this job three years ago."_

_She leans back, looks at Donna through those same soft, patronizing eyes._

"_You can't blame him. He's never gonna find someone as capable as you."_

_Donna hardens, turns back towards the door._

"_It's not a false alarm. It wouldn't take this long."_

_Knowing it's gone too far but it's still not quite there, CJ looks down at her hands._

_A clock above Carol's desk ticks relentlessly into the silence._

"_You know, you can't blame Josh. It's not his job to—"_

"_I don't blame Josh," CJ replies, heavy. "It takes two of you. You choose to stay."_

"_It's the White House."_

_She masks it all with incredulity. If it worked on Amy, it'll work on everyone else._

"_It's not the White House," CJ says, voice going that damnable soft again. "It's him."_

_Donna turns back to the straps of Josh's fishing creel, working the leather with tense fingers._

"_Okay, it's the night before—I _really _don't want to—"_

"_Why didn't you get a drink with the guy from the _Post-Intelligencer_? You knew what was on your desk; you knew what was on Josh's desk; you're done packing. Couldn't it wait?"_

"_Why'd you cancel your camping trip?" Donna bites off, furious. "Why didn't you kiss Danny right in the middle of the bullpen like you _said _you would when he came back again? Why didn't you go out to dinner with him? We're going to be out of here in a few minutes, and all you're going home to is a bowl of stale popcorn and a rerun of _Conan_."_

_Her eyes widen, peach-colored mouth zeroing into a shocked circle._

"_I'm sorry," she stammers. "I just—"_

"_You what?"_

_CJ's snapping at her. CJ's angry, hurt, and is that the tiniest hint of knowing Donna's right peeking from beneath unaccustomed flannel?_

"_Nothing."_

"_You what, Donna?"_

_She smoothes the turquoise silk across her hips ("You look gorgeous," Josh'd said, taking her arm) and speaks slowly._

"_I think Ben's great. I think you guys are great together. I hope it works."_

_CJ scoffs, crumples the empty Goldfish bag in one defeated fist._

"_Have you seen us together?"_

"_Not really," Donna shrugs, a gesture of what-can-you-do. CJ nods in return, picking at her nails._

_Even with the air off, it's suddenly become a little colder._

_Outside the door, the agent shuffles his feet and coughs._

"_What should I be doing?"_

_Her voice is wavering, quiet. CJ's head turns, takes her in again._

"_Instead of this?"_

"_Anything," CJ says automatically. "You should…go to lectures and…dance the tango and eat oysters in Parisian cafes with handsome Italian men; you should marry a Lt. Commander and have a million children; you should date Republicans and fly to Hawaii; you should buy art and look for opportunities with non-profits and have one-night stands with reporters from the _Post-Intelligencer _and go on dates with what's-his-name from the Solicitor General's office and Joe Quincy and anything that doesn't have to do with Josh Lyman."_

_She ends with a dramatic flair of one hand, the exhale of wasted breath._

"_Wow."_

_Donna's eyes are wide and glittery._

"_Okay."_

_She looks back down at the binder, hides her face once more._

"_Let's not do this."_

- - -

"Has anyone tried—?"

"None of the congressmen—"

"—Mrs. DeSantos—"

The bullpen is a plethora of anger and fright. Every body, warm or cold, that was to be found in Communications, Operations, or the Counsel's office—even some random flunkies yanked from the hallways—has been handed a phone and a list of numbers and told to call for hours on end. Papers fly; news, staccato, flows through the teeming air; the TVs shriek on at full volume.

Charlie enters this cacophony in silence, swaying unsteadily beside Donna's desk when he stops. He wants to wait, wants let them have a bit longer without it, but _God_ it kills just to know…

He clears his throat, quiet, and speaks.

"Toby."

Will looks up, his hand halting on the receiver.

"Tell the president we're still trying his cell," Toby says, distracted. He paces back and forth before the bank of TVs. "I keep dialing and getting cut off."

He hasn't looked at Charlie yet.

"Toby."

The phone slips from Will's grasp.

"What happened?"

Charlie's mouth opens and closes several times; his brown eyes are large and wet.

"Leo and Kate Harper just went to see the president. They left the door open and I could hear them."

Toby's hand lowers, the harsh click of a disconnected line buzzing through the turbulence.

"_The number you are attempting to reach is unavailable at this time,"_ a robotic woman apologizes from his palm.

"Charlie, what happened?" he asks, voice whispering.

The aides stop moving, the interns go silent, and Ginger mutes CJ with one shaky stab of her finger.

"They're dead."

The cell phone clangs on the carpet; a woman sobs once, loudly.

"Josh and Donna are dead."

- - -

_They'd said good night, stilted and uneven. Donna feels as though there was something still there, something barely begun and yet so old, something that's been there for years now that CJ's just been dying to say._

_She wishes she'd just kept her mouth shut._

"_Donna!"_

_Kate Harper smiles silently as she passes; Donna begins to straighten some folders. She is slow and measured, methodical._

_What _is _she doing? Is she just going to stand here, wait for him to come out and order her around more?_

_She knows they'll go home, call each other to talk of meaningless things, and she'll fall asleep with the sound of his voice in her head. She'll wake up tomorrow morning and call him so she knows he's awake; they'll drive to the airport together and talk some more about things they've hashed over for years. What was that old thing about airports and relationships?_

_She thinks suddenly of what life would be, as Mrs. Lt. Commander Jack Reese, as Mrs. Cliff Calley, as Mrs. Josh Lyman._

"_DONNA!"_

_Her stomach turns, her eyes dry, and she gathers the last few things into a bag. The flight leaves early; she needs to go home._

_He comes out of his office moments after she leaves, certain he can still smell a hint of her perfume on the air._

- - -

The upper room is empty when they enter, bare of person and object. They stand beside the windows, cursing Leo and the world in ragged thoughts.

"Shouldn't we get her out of there?" Will whispers. Toby focuses in on CJ, pondering it momentarily.

"Too late."

He sighs, watching as Carol darts forward, that goddamn Post-It clutched in one hand. His fingers go to the glass, and he waits in silence, watches her fall.

- - -

"_Hey."_

_Josh flops across the couch, jacket landing haphazardly on the arm. Toby takes out a piece of gum._

"_Hey."_

"_When d'you think they're gonna stop using the false alarm line?"_

_His mouth twitches, makes a noise loud enough to qualify as a weak chuckle. That's just the way he works._

"_I got stuck with Kate Harper."_

"_Where?"_

"_My office. You?"_

"_Will. Sam's old office."_

_He thinks it should be strange that he still considers it _Sam'_s office, that he never really considered Will more than a guy here on a temp job._

"_You talk to him?"_

"_No, we just e-mail occasionally. He told me about Mallory."_

_Josh gives him a look._

"_I meant Will."_

"_Oh."_

_Toby uses the silence, punctuated with the harsh pop of his gum._

"_He thinks I'm in my 'twilight' years. That the proverbial political sun has set for me."_

_Josh puts an arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling._

"_You see what he did tonight? The thing with McGill?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_He's gonna win."_

_They sigh as one, thoughts on the years that've gone far too quickly._

"_Josh?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_We've still got two years here. Two years of Bartlet before you can—"_

"_Can you believe he got a dead guy elected once?"_

_Yeah. _That'_s what they're going to talk about right now._

"_Josh—"_

"_Whatever."_

_Josh jumps up off the couch, stretches his shoulders._

"_I've got an early flight. See you."_

_He's halfway out, almost back to the lobby._

"_Josh."_

_He spins back, jacket arcing out behind him. Toby leans against the doors, hands in pockets._

"_You're here 'til it's done, right?"_

_Josh grins, but it's a second late._

"_I'm not going anywhere, Toby."_

- - -

CJ stumbles down the stairs and into the hallway, one hand pressing hard on her mouth.

Toby and Will sprint across the marble floors, slowing to stop a few feet away.

"CJ…"

"Don't!" she says shakily. "Just—don't!"

"CJ, we didn't—"

Leo arrives in that moment, skidding around the corner with a passel of Secret Service.

"CJ, I—"

"What the hell was that, Leo?!" she screams, tears running down her chin, soaking into her shirt. "What the _hell_ was that?"

"I'm sorry, CJ," he says quietly. "I wanted to tell you—"

"What, differently?" she snaps, glaring down at the smaller man. Her paled face, tinged at the cheeks with small spots of red, bleeds of rage and shocked depression. "That is _not_ how I should've been told, Leo!"

"We tried to get you out of the room, CJ, but—"

"The hell you did!" CJ yells, wheeling on Toby. "What the hell is—He was my _friend_, dammit, you should've—"

Blurry, red-rimmed eyes swing back to find Leo.

Danny stands solemnly near the wall, face filled with unseen pity.

"That is _not_ how I should've been told!"

And Leo stares at her so silently as she staggers away, falling haplessly onto a nearby bench. Will and Toby look away uneasily, CJ's horrible tears echoing through the halls.

"This isn't how any of us should've been told," Leo says. Carol arrives with a glass of water to combat CJ's ragged sobs, and Leo gives one last look around. Somehow so much older than he was seven hours ago, he sighs. "I'll be in my office."


	4. Chapter 3: On That Day Before

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Archive:** Ask and ye shall receive.

**Author's Notes:** In honor of Erev Yom Kippur, I offer you this.

**Chapter Three: On That Day Before**

"Line one," Debbie says.

**4:04 PM**

"Thank you," Jed replies. Charlie stands at the door, lost.

**After the Explosion**

"Is there anything you need, Mr. President?"

He thinks of a thousand things he needs: a time machine, a weapon that kills only the bad people, a road map to peace, a reason not to start another war, something to say to make this all go away.

"No," he says at last. "Thanks, Charlie."

The boy nods, closes the door behind him.

It takes a while, but he makes it to the desk. Falls into the seat, presses the blinking light, picks up the phone.

"Mr. and Mrs. Moss?" he asks, clearing the knot from his throat. "This is President Jed Bartlet."

"_Please…call us Steve and Kay."_

He closes his eyes tight, one hand fists onto his thigh.

"I…I have three daughters," he begins. "I thought of Donna often as a daughter. I have no idea how to tell you this."

- - -

"_Hey, isn't your flight leaving now?"_

_Josh checks his watch._

"_Not for another three hours."_

"_Two-and-a-half," Donna says, handing Charlie the folders one-by-one. "Your watch sucks, Josh."_

_He taps the face of it, holding it close to his ear._

"_Damn," he says. "Only right twice a day, huh?"_

_Charlie grins, stacking the papers in a box._

"_I'll make sure Toby gets these," he tells Donna._

"_In the order I—?"_

"_In the right order, at the right time on the right day with the front covers facing up and everything," he assures her, a soft grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he stands, shuffles things to Debbie's desk. "Have fun."_

_He turns back, wraps Donna in a hug. He shakes Josh's hand, and Debbie emerges from the Oval._

"_He'll see you now," she says, settling herself into her chair. She fixes Josh with a steely stare. "Are you going to be in Jerusalem?"_

"_Yeah, at first," he nods. "A day or two, I think."_

"_We might do some sight-seeing," Donna adds, thumbing the strap of her purse._

"_Why d'you ask?"_

_Debbie blushes, actually _blushes_, and rubs the back of one milk-white hand._

"_Could I ask you a favor?" she says, focusing somewhere over his left shoulder._

"_Sure," he grins, leaning against her desk._

"_If you go t-to the Wall, would you…"_

_She pulls a small, crumpled paper from the inside of her purse, holds it out to Josh with trembling fingers._

"_Would you put this there for me?"_

"_Absolutely."_

_And the smile she sees when she finally looks up is the rare Lyman dimpled-smile, the soft, gentle expression of someone who understands. He takes the little slip of paper with all the reverence due a relic of great antiquity. _

"_I made a promise to my uncle," she says, staring back at her hands. "I always told him I'd try to go there one day, pray for him, but I never had the…You can read it, if you want, I don't—"_

"_I won't read it."_

_Josh waits until she' s looking again, lets her see him place it in the folder clearly marked IMPORTANT and zip the folder carefully into his backpack._

_Debbie grins up at him._

"_The president will see you now."_

_And when they come back, Debbie rounds her desk and wraps Josh in a warm hug, telling him to be careful and come back with souvenirs. Donna stands off to the side, smiling._

- - -

"We've sent in a team of our guys to investigate and retrieve the bodies. The bodies'll be flown back, probably tomorrow or the day after."

There is silence.

Jed sucks in a breath, self-revulsion flooding his throbbing head. He shouldn't have given them clinical description like that, _God_, what's the matter with him—what kind of monster _is_ he?

They are too quiet for him to handle.

"I'm—"

"_What are your daughters' names?"_

He blinks.

"Elizabeth's the oldest, Ellie's middle, and Zoey Patricia's our youngest."

He rattles them each off, automatic.

"_They're all out of college now, right?"_

"Yeah," Jed nods. "Lizzy has two kids."

Kay asks all the questions; Steve hasn't spoken since 'hello'.

"_Yes…Yes. We saw you light the Christmas tree this year, with the little boy."_

"Gus," Jed supplies, a sickly green feeling gathering in his lower gut.

"_Donna sent us pictures of them all the time. She loved telling us her stories about the White House."_

"I'll bet she did," he says blandly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hates these damn calls.

- - -

"_Don't you have a flight to catch?"_

"_Two hours," Donna nods._

"_You two going by yourselves?"_

"_We're meeting Andi there."_

"_How long is the flight?"_

_They're so damn close to the door; freedom is one gasping breath away. Resolute, Josh's fingers slip from the doorknob. Abbey leaves the portico door open._

"_Sixteen hours," Donna moans. "We connect at JFK and Heathrow."_

"_Sixteen hours with Josh?"_

"_Hey."_

_He manages to look pathetically wounded, and Jed grins._

"_Alright, I'll let you go."_

"_Be careful," Abbey nods, kissing Josh on the cheek. Donna wipes the smear of red lipstick with a smile._

"_We'll be fine," Josh pshaws. "Back before you know it."_

"_Take lots of pictures. Call every day."_

"_Yes, Mother," Donna teases amicably, squeezing the small First Lady. Abbey smoothes the girl's hair, turns a stern eye to Josh._

"_You take care of this young woman, Josh," she says sharply._

"_Yes, ma'am," he stammers, eyes going wide._

"_Treat her as the precious, priceless article she is," Jed joins in, looking every bit the father-on-Prom-night he's shooting for. An arm slips around his wife, squeezes her shoulder gently. "Or may God smite you down where you stand."_

"_Wouldn't it be _smote_?"_

"_Do you mock me?"_

"_I do, sir," Josh replies, grinning._

"_And you're not the least bit afraid of what I'll do?"_

"_Not really," Josh shrugs. "I'm leaving the country for a while, and quite frankly, I'm more terrified of the evil eye your wife's sending my way."_

"_Have fun and be safe," Abbey smiles, kissing them both one last time. "Call us when you land."_

_They retreat together with wide, innocent smiles, waving goodbye._

- - -

"_We almost voted Republican the first time."_

And she says it so apologetically that he just has to smile, has to chuckle a bit at the bittersweet naivety he's faced with.

What was it Josh had said that one time, a side comment during one of the early budget meetings as he winked to Donna and mocked Leo?

"Well, that's alright. You voted for me in the end, right?"

_Bambi-esque?_

"_Of course,"_ Kay replies softly. "_Donna'd brought us around by then."_

"_We saw her when you stopped in Madison that first time."_

Steve's voice is hoarse, croaky and ill-used. He clears his throat and continues.

"_We hadn't seen her since she'd packed up and drove for Manchester, but she called one night and told us she was bringing some friends over. The next night she shows up at our door with four people we'd only seen on TV, yelling at each other and the newscasters…"_

He trails off into a nervous bit of laughter, a moment of recognized inappropriateness.

"_I'll never forget when she introduced us to him. Boy had a strong handshake, nice and firm. You don't find that often now, you know? Most men, too damn busy caring about money or stocks or bits of paper instead of honor and decency, but Josh…he had a strong grip. He cared about things."_

He goes quiet; Jed feels his heart tug. He thinks of calling Zoey later tonight, remembers then that she came home yesterday, and thinks again that he'll go find her later on, just to check up.

"_A man like that…a man like Josh…well, he only comes along once in a long while."_

- - -

"_Hey, don't you have a—?"_

"_Heading out the door," Josh grimaces, pointing to the portal of freedom a few short steps away._

"_Leo's driving you?"_

"_No, CJ is," Donna replies. "You really think we'd trust Leo behind the wheel?"_

"_Does he even have a driver's license?"_

"_I _do_."_

_Leo sidles up, giving each a stern glare. CJ follows, digging through her large brown purse._

"_You're going now?"_

"_Don't worry, Toby," Josh grins. "They'll be back in time for the Total Crackpot Day meeting."_

_Toby scowls, teeth grinding over a wad of stale gum._

"_I could give the speech in the car."_

"_Leo, I can guarantee that if you give that damn speech in the car, I'm throwing you into the Potomac."_

_CJ's all growly this morning, and Donna shifts awkwardly. The men, thankfully, are oblivious._

"_Two weeks?"_

"_I'll pray for you at the Wall," Josh grins. They hug quickly; Donna swings one arm around Toby's neck as he squeezes her middle._

"_Take care, kid," he says, kissing her hair._

"_Good luck," she replies as Josh steers her to the door. "Don't mess up too bad while we're gone!"_

"_Have a safe flight!"_

"_Bye!"_

_They exit into a stream of bright sunlight, laughing and smiling, Josh's hand resting lightly in the small of Donna's back. He half-smiles, watching until they disappear beyond a whitewashed column._

- - -

"It's the plague of all fathers," Jed agrees. "You try to keep her locked in the attic from the day she turns fifteen, but they always manage to pick the lock and bust down the door."

They don't even chuckle. He curses himself for the hundred-and-twenty-seventh time.

"_Donna never really settled with anyone,"_ Kay says. "_We thought when she went to college, with Eric…but then she left him and went to work for you. We thought…"_

She gives a nervous, twittery little half-laugh.

"_Donna's brought a boyfriend home for dinner maybe five times since she started dating. We've never even met anyone she dated from Washington. But…she's had Josh over thirty-two times since the start of the first campaign. I guess, I always thought…"_

"You weren't alone," Jed replies softly. Somehow, it doesn't surprise him that she counted. "We all saw it here. We were just…waiting for them to see it, I think."

He glimpses Charlie through the half-open door, sitting in silence in the darkened outer office. His blank brown eyes watch the wall; his mouth is a slackened frown.

"_I never said anything."_

Jed hears the crinkle of tissue, the soft sound of frightened weeping.

"_I'm beginning to wish I had."_

- - -

"_Andrew Jackson—"_

"_I wasn't kidding about the river thing, Leo."_

"_CJ, a year without hearing the Big Block of Cheese Day Speech is like—"_

"_The finger of God reaching down from between the golden clouds to caress my wearied face, like a father praising his wayward son."_

_Leo turns and glares with mirth; Donna whaps him lightly on the shoulder. Josh laughs, watching the trees._

"_He's been reading Faulkner again," she apologizes. Leo grins back._

"_CJ, not hearing the speech will ruin the spirit of the day."_

_He turns back to her, leathery voice earnest._

"_You never know, CJ," Josh joins. "You could be touching off the apocalypse by denying Leo his right to give the Crackpot Day Speech."_

"_How many times have I told you not to call it that?"_

"_It's either that or Unemployed Lunatics Day."_

"_Andrew Jackson…"_

"Leo…"

_He only clears his throat and speaks with more volume._

"—had_, in the main foyer of the White House, a two-ton block of cheese."_

_There's a deep, collective groan, and three secret, matching smiles._

"_First line, Leo. That's all you get."_

_He crosses his arms, leans back into the seat with a huff._

"_You're ruining the day, CJ."_

- - -

It's getting black outside when he finally hangs up with the Mosses. He feels dry inside, squeezed out and hollow.

The lights are bright in the Residence as he stumbles through the hall, bursts of saffron from heavily-shaded lamps that make him squint and blink. Zoey's room is a wall-less cave, quiet and dark.

He feels his careful way to the bed where he finds her shaking and curled around Mr. Muffy, a careworn and rapidly dying teddy bear.

"Daddy?" she whispers hesitantly, voice choked with tears, as he slides onto the bed and wraps her in his arms.

"You're never leaving this room," he says, kissing her hair, injecting as much authority as he can bear to muster into the tone. "Never, Zoe. I'm not letting you go."

"Daddy," she says again, running a gentle hand over his back, snuggling into his chest. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

"So did they," he chokes out, stifling his tears into his baby's shoulder.

- - -

"_Damn terminals."_

_Leo scowls at the metal detector, gives it a swift kick when the guards have turned away._

"_Still not worse than the candle thing."_

"_Are you ever gonna let that go?"_

_Donna's sensitive alabaster skin is tinged pink; she glowers at Josh._

"_Probably not," he shrugs, retrieving his cell phone from the little basket. "It was funny."_

"_It was not."_

"_Was too."_

_She thrusts the carryon at him, marches off ahead to the terminal. He grins and after a moment, follows._

_Leo smiles, turning back to share one of those winks with CJ, but her face is drawn and closed. She looks after Donna with a disappointed eye, and Leo looks as well. He just doesn't see it._

- - -

It's cold out on the portico tonight. Jed walks, head down, hands in pockets.

"We've gotten good at this."

He turns, startled, and sees him for the first time.

"Leo, I didn't—"

"I know," Leo says dismissively, tapping the filter on the edge of the bench. "You got a light?"

Jed glances through the warped glass behind him, at the mahogany desk with its high-back leather chair, the brocade-covered couches and plush blue carpet, the blonde walls and pale wainscoting, the plastic phone and gold-plated pens that glint pompously under electric lights.

He strokes his pocket in thought, fingering the outline of a sterling silver lighter he'd received from the Prime Minister of Germany at a state dinner two years previous.

"Yeah," he sighs at last. "Can I bum one?"

"Sure," Leo says as the president walks across the marble, a lost and despondent motion. He sits, and Leo holds out the second cigarette. "I got these off Rodney."

A flame flickers twice in the twilight, and two old men sit back in a haze of thin white smoke. They puff and pull in silence for some time, the pale grey ghosts of their cigarette fumes wending away towards the sky.

"What did you mean just then?"

"What did what—"

"_We've gotten good at this_," Jed interjects, anger rippling. "What does that mean?"

Leo sighs, smoking him down to the filter before even thinking of answering.

"I don't know," he admits in near-silence, as though the lack of volume makes it less true. "We've gotten good at abstracts, I guess. At lying to ourselves. At—"

He sighs again, deep, gut-wrenching, hollow. Jed flicks the cigarette away. Dennis the Dress Marine crushes the butt beneath his heel.

"We've gotten good at killing people."

- - -

"_And you'll call every day?"_

"_Leo, it's not like we're gonna—"_

"_You'll call?"_

_Donna smiles as he turns his anxious eyes to her, recognizing Josh as the lost cause he's always been. Josh runs one half-exasperated hand through his newly shortened hair, smirking at Leo's sudden turn as Mother Hen._

"_Yes," she replies patiently. "We'll call every single day, and we'll email and send packages and everything, Leo."_

_She leans forward and gives him a soft kiss on the cheek, Josh still grinning like an idiot over her shoulder._

"_Take care of yourself, kid," Leo says, squeezing her shoulders briefly. "And keep him outta trouble too, huh?"_

"_He'll be a perfect gentleman," Donna promises, shouldering her purse. "Even if I have to tie him to his bed."_

_He wisely bites down on the forthcoming sarcastic comment, recognizing sexual humor might not be appropriate in front of his boss._

_CJ steps forward, hands trembling as she hugs them both._

"_Be careful," she intones, holding Donna a moment longer than necessary._

"_We'll be _fine_," Josh sighs, grabbing Donna's carryon and adjusting his backpack. "It's only two weeks, and it's not like we won't be surrounded by protection 24/7."_

"_Still," Leo shakes his head. "You can never be sure."_

_The PA squeaks on, voices a loud drone of nothing._

"_They're calling our flight," Donna says to Josh. She takes his hand in hers, pulling him towards the terminal as he shouts a final goodbye._

"_We'll be right back!" he calls, giving them a short wave and one dazzling smile before they're swept up in a crowd, gone from sight._

- - -

"Mr. President?"

Leo looks up.

"Sir," Charlie says quietly. "Mrs. Lyman's here."

He checks his watch.

"Damn. Fast flight."

"Josh's mother's here?"

Jed's voice is vacant, his gaze unfocused.

"Yeah," Leo replies. "I told her she could come up, if she wanted. I didn't think she should be alone."

"Okay."

He sighs, takes a deep breath.

"Okay."

Jed stands, collects himself.

"Is she waiting?"

"Right outside the office, sir," Charlie nods, still faintly shell-shocked. "And the First Lady called. She's flying down from Manchester tonight."

"Good," Jed says, after a long moment. "Charlie, maybe you should go up to the Residence. Zoey's alone up there; she could probably use some company right now."

Charlie blinks, once, twice, and opens his mouth.

"Just go."

Jed gives a little shake of his head, a twisted grimace of a half-smile.

"Thank you, Mr. President."

He ducks his head, glances at the false warmth spilling out from the building, and turns at a light run for the Residence. Dennis the Silent and Unmoving Dress Marine moves at last, opening the Portico door.

Jed feels too pompous walking out of the Oval Office; he ducks and shuffles forward. He'd never gotten good at this.

Debbie's sitting, ashen and soundless, blank gaze on her blinking computer, hands folded over in her lap. A small woman occupies the chair against the wall, face turned to the purse in her lap, fingers twisting a white kerchief into rope.

"Sylvia?"

The woman turns then, smiles uncertainly at Leo and stands.

"Mr. President," she says, holding out her hand. He shakes it, robotic. "It's a—"

She swallows; her hand trembles, and she pulls it quickly to her side.

"Hey, Sylvie," Leo says gently, giving her a brief hug.

"Leo," she replies. "It's been too long."

Thick, choked, too damn tired for this anymore, he speaks.

"Mrs. Lyman, I'm so sorry."

She looks him up and down with a muted, unreadable eye.

"I am too," she says simply. "Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?"


	5. Chapter 4: A Proportional Response

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** Deepest apologies for the lateness. School issues cut in, but I made this chapter extra long.

**Chapter Four: A Proportional Response**

"_Amy, I need last week's figures again."_

**5:42 PM**

"_I put them back on your desk last night."_

**After the Explosion**

"_Well, they're not there now."_

_He drops a clipboard on her desk, lets it scatter the careful stacks she's made._

"_Go find them."_

_She sighs, pushes her chair back with a violent shove. Troy smirks and waltzes away to his plush, windowed office. Amy looks around her cubicle, stabbing the corkboard walls with a newly-sharpened pencil._

"_Jackass," she fumes, stomping for the copier. Michelle passes, laden with steaming coffee._

"_Your boyfriend's dead," she calls out casually, picking something green from between her teeth._

"_What?"_

_Amy stops, whirls around._

"_I don't have a boyfriend."_

"_Your ex," Michelle elaborates, waving one hand in a grand gesture. The coffee wobbles wildly. "Y'know, that guy you dated in DC or whatever."_

_She puts a hand on her hip, rolls her eyes._

"_I dated a lot of guys in DC."_

_Michelle gives her a look, an eye-roll of of-course-you-did-you-whore._

"_That one guy, you know… Jeremy? John?"_

_An ice cube slips down her gullet._

"_Josh?"_

_Michelle chews on one smudged lip._

"_Josh?" Amy repeats. "Was it Josh?"_

"_Yeah," she nods. "Yeah, that's right. Josh Limen or something. He got bombed."_

_Michelle turns away then, flounces on to Troy's undeserved office in the corner. Amy turns as well, slowly toward the break room._

_She opens the door, slithers into darkness._

_Her fingers are shaking uncontrollably. They slip off the doorknob, shiver through the air to the TV power button._

_Five months working here; she's never been in this fucking room._

_She rolls through CNN, NBC, ABC, BET. Waits around, comes to C-SPAN. They're playing the clip-of-the-moment._

_CJ, standing at the podium, the glitter of tears harsh under glaring fluorescents._

_The words. The confirmation._

_Josh Lyman is dead. Donna Moss is dead._

_Her fingers vibrate violently; she squeezes them into a fist._

_She doesn't know if she'd rather laugh or cry._

- - -

"Are you kidding? Don't you know the term _decent interval_? Go away."

He slams the phone back down, chipping the cheap plastic receiver.

"It's been barely an hour since we announced, and Magley from the DNC wants to talk about who to run for the two vacant House seats."

"You're joking," Will says, dropping heavily into the empty chair.

"They're still—an _hour_, and he's talking about DeSantos's poachable district. I've had every damn Democrat in a 50-mile radius calling."

"What do they want?"

"Well, they all start out with gratuitous condolences for our 'unexpected and deeply tragic loss,' and then they spend the next ten minutes trying to work their name and 'Deputy CoS' into the same sentence."

Toby snarls at his paper, digging the pen tip in and tearing the words apart.

"McKenna's called five times alone, telling me how we can run strong candidates in Korb's district and turn Ohio towards—Simmel's called three times with a _short list_ for who should replace Josh now that—"

He crumples the paper in his hands.

"They're doing electoral math in the blood of—"

He can't finish. Will nods, understanding.

"Then you're really gonna hate what the vice president sent me here to do."

"Don't tell me."

"He wants to see an advance copy of the president's speech."

"Huh."

He drops the pen in a pile of discarded attempts, scratches the crown of his bald pate and watches the carpet.

"You're worse than that clown from the DNC."

Will nods, looks down at his hands.

"I thought so too," he sighs. "So I respectfully told him that he's one sick son of a bitch for playing politics in the midst of a national tragedy, and that he could take his damn campaign manager job and shove it up his ass."

Toby goes very quiet, studying the paper now, tracing the lines. It doesn't feel right to smile just yet, but the sentiment's there.

"You said that to the vice president?"

"Oh, but I didn't stop there," Will grins. "I also told him that if he had trouble keeping _that_ up his ass, he could shove his hopes of ever becoming president right up there with it."

He brushes his fingers over the leather of the chair, a little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Think I'm fired?"

He's missed that look of Toby's, that expression of amazement at the sheer stupidity of those who surround him.

"Uh, _yeah_."

He loosens his tie, grin fading.

"How's CJ?"

"Went straight for her office," Toby shrugs, trying and failing so perfectly to look neutral. "Locked the door; won't even let Carol in."

He scrawls a few things, black scratches on yellow note paper. Tears it off the pad, crumples it, looks for a nearby blowtorch.

"What're you writing?" Will asks, bending curiously over the desk, trying to read the illegible scribble upside down. "The speech?"

Toby looks to the floor, sets the crumpled paper on the corner of his desk. His face goes dark, exhausted and used-up.

"His eulogy," he says quietly. Will looks up, startled, and then nods.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Toby sighs.

Will taps his fingers on the armrests, glances back and forth quickly.

"Want some help?"

And his smile is so tentative, so hesitant, so open and afraid, that Toby feels old and tired and cruel. He sighs again and sets the pen down.

He's a spokesman; it's in his blood. He knows exactly what to say.

"You're here for the speech-writing job."

Will glances up, grins back for a moment.

"I am."

He throws a pad of paper and several sharpened pencils at him.

"Five hundred words on unity and faith in government during national tragedy. If it's five hundred and one, don't show it to me."

He leans back, pushes his glasses up on his nose. Toby watches him, pen tip to paper, waiting for the right blood to flow.

- - -

_Three thousand files (annual estimated norm) per day. Four hundred pages (average) per memo. Five hundred words (quarterly mean) per page._

"_Number twenty-seven!" Ryan announces with a tired grin, dropping another memo on a pitifully small outbox stack._

_Marnie, the folksy paralegal from Georgetown who's subbing for the summer, applauds him with a bashful smile._

"_And miles to go before you sleep."_

_Cassie passes, adding a few thousand more._

"_Dammit."_

_Ryan drops the pen and his poor, overworked head onto the desk._

"_You guys have the TV on?"_

"The Real World_," Ryan offers, bopping from depression to elation in his usual ping pong-like manner. Cassie blinks, the seasoned veteran appalled by freshmen idiocy._

"_You work for one of the most powerful Democrats in Washington. Why aren't you watching the news? _Especially _today?"_

"_Why today?" Ryan asks as Marnie, admonished, rises for the remote._

"_What d'ya mean _why today_? Don't you know?"_

_Marnie finds the remote, and then they know._

_Ryan blanches, eyes wide._

"_Ry?"_

"_Nothin'," he says. "They're just—"_

_He watches the bombing, sees the photos of stiff public smiles and awkward public distance. His hand always rests lightly on her back._

"_Just people I used to know."_

- - -

"So what'd we know? What kind of day has it been so far?"

"Site guys say seven in the SUV."

Steve pushes a pencil behind his ear.

"Admiral Fitzwallace, Josh, Donna, Congressmen Korb and DeSantos, Ariel Prebbler—"

"Who?"

"CODEL staffer working out of the Embassy," Katie supplies, dropping a new printout in front of Danny. "Young, half-Israeli, I think."

"—and the last was the John Doe driver/interpreter," Steve finishes. "They were all in the last car."

"Any news on the status of Prebbler or John Doe?"

"Nothing," Chris says, grimacing. "Steve, your guy just called again."

"Editor or…?"

"Marimer," she replies, tossing him the cell phone. "Says it's urgent."

He catches it in one hand, moves to the lower pressroom for privacy.

"Am I still the only one wondering why _we_'re doing the White House's job for them?"

They go quiet, Chris and Mark and Katie and Greg Brock, staring at the papers and printouts and index cards. Danny pounds away at a laptop, smoldering and oblivious.

"Why are we _doing_ this?"

Laura's new, here only six months. Little _FOX News Network_ bitch.

"If you're not helping, you should leave."

"We shouldn't be doing this," Laura insists, ignoring the danger in Danny's low voice. "It's our job to _report_ the President's mistakes, not fix them. We're competitors; we shouldn't be _working_ together."

"We aren't doing this for a story," Danny bites off, eyes glued to the screen. "And we aren't doing this for the White House."

"Then who _is_ it for?"

Danny gets up, marches to one of the many monitors on the banks that line the left side of the room. He punches a button, slams a power switch or two. CJ's shocked, ghost-white face fills the screen.

"_These are all…they've been confirmed and…"_

He pauses the tape, lets them all see the glitter of tears in her eyes.

"This is for CJ," he says firmly. "You don't wanna help, that's fine. You think we shouldn't be doing this? Then fuck you and get out."

He points an angry finger at the screen, then at each of them.

"We watched CJ Cregg fall right in front of us not one hour ago. We watched her _fall_."

His voice cracks; the photos they keep running on CNN are killing him slowly, and Katie'd turned the other monitors off a while ago.

"CJ doesn't fall. CJ doesn't cry. Not in front of us."

He yanks the chair out, thumps it down harshly.

"You got a problem with this little research party, there's the door."

He thumbs in the direction of the big red exit, and Laura sinks, crimson and shame-faced, into her chair.

Steve comes back from the lower room, a harried frown painting his face as he carefully folds the phone closed.

"What is it?"

"My editor's a complete jackass."

There's a chorus of rough chuckles.

"I'm not kidding," Steve says quietly. "The president's about to get screwed by AP on national television."

Katie looks wary, fingers tightening on a pen as she takes Mark's scrawled notes.

"What happened?"

- - -

_She has to hear it from Kenny._

_It kills her, knowing she hears everything from someone else. She can't even go for the baby when he cries at night, and it hits some place buried deep inside, that little hole torn long ago, when she'd been just a weird little girl with the big hearing aides clamped to her head. The weird little girl has grown up, and it kills her inside._

_He taps her on the shoulder as she bends over the sink, covered in bubbles and bathwater. There are tears in his eyes when she turns._

"_Something's happened," he says, signs jerky and indistinct. Joey clutches twenty pounds of wobbly, slippery baby flesh to her chest, brow wrinkling._

"_What?" she asks, not even bothering with the signs. "What happened?"_

"_You… you should come watch it."_

_And she hoists Michael higher, wraps him in half a dishtowel, follows Kenny to the living room._

_He points to the screen, puts his head in his hands, waits._

_She watches, confused._

_At first, there are just pictures._

_An explosion, the jerky reception of a camera phone captures the flight of a black SUV through the air. Then photos that pause and fade, a melancholy march across the screen, and she's never been so glad she can't hear the commentators._

_She turns to Kenny, touches his shaking shoulders. It leaves a perfect tiny dot of darker grey on his shirt. Michael yanks on her hair, fat baby fingers tangling the braids._

_And she doesn't even have to read his sobbing lips to know the answer to her unasked question._

- - -

He floats down the hall, frozen. Shock, at last, has entered his system.

The walls become a blur of dirty gold; the columns whoosh past in irregular white lines.

He enters the lobby, lost.

"Just let me—"

"Sir, you have to—"

The floor is swathed in the radiance of late afternoon.

"I used to _work_ here! For four years! Call Leo McGarry if you don't—"

"Sir, you need to step back."

The sun paints an ochreous band across the seal as he walks over it.

"Just let me in the goddamn building!"

"Sir—"

"Toby!"

His head snaps up; Toby returns to the land of the living.

He'd left Will behind only minutes ago, gone to walk the halls for what felt like fifteen lifetimes. The blood had been flowing, but only for a moment before he was back to writing it again.

_It_, of course, being Josh Lyman's eulogy.

He turns, looks at the man standing, tear-streaked face searching his own, in the doors of the West Wing.

"Sam?"

- - -

_He's glued to it._

_He feels sick inside, like one of those reality TV addicts, or the perverted sons-of-bitches that rubberneck the especially gruesome pile-ups, blocking the ambulances and fire trucks on the highway._

_It's disgusting, but he glances over his shoulder at the clock._

_He'll remember this day forever._

"_Speaker called again."_

"_Hold the calls for now, Jane, okay?"_

_And he can sense her eye-roll as she leaves, little pink slips clutched in red-tipped fingers. He'll fire her tomorrow._

"And there's still no comment from the White House after CJ Cregg's initial announcement—"

_They have to show a picture. Of course, the damn funereal B-roll._

_He remembers the spitfire she was. Kinda tall, so innocent and harassed, flyaway hair stuffed into a ponytail._

"_Because I hate poor people. I hate them, Donna. They're all so… poor."_

_He laughs to himself, turns the volume up a bit more._

_He loves it when they show the families._

"—Lyman, who served for several years as a part of former Vice President John Hoynes's congressional staff before leaving to join President Bartlet's—"

_It's sick but intoxicating. He doesn't know how many times he's watched people flay themselves alive for just a moment of the limelight, but he thinks it's best when you're dead._

"—appeared shaken and distant, completely shocked by the news as she—"

_They drag out all the good stuff when you're dead. The birthdays, Christmases (or Chanukahs), the bar mitzvahs and baptisms and high school graduation pictures._

"—investigators still negotiating access to—"

_And he thinks of it as people in a zoo, faces pressed so hard to the bars that they walk away marked in telling vertical stripes._

"He is survived by his wife and three children—"

_Josh didn't have children. Donna didn't have children._

_They had each other._

_Cliff cranks the volume as high as it goes, trying to drown out the words._

- - -

"CJ."

"I'm not taking questions!"

The tears are hushed, bleeding through the bottom crack of the door.

"We're not here as reporters!"

"Who's _we_?"

"Danny an' Steve."

Cellophane wrappers crinkle; the drawn blinds twitch.

"CJ."

"Go away, Danny."

He grips the doorknob.

"I'll break in if I have to, CJ."

"Go ahead."

The knob turns easily in his tightened fingers; the door is unlocked.

CJ lays in the semi-darkness, curled on the corner of the couch. A glass of water balances at the edge of her desk, teetering precariously over a pile of discarded papers. There are two doves in Gail's bowl today; the fish floats lazily between, nibbling bits of bloated Goldfish crackers.

"CJ."

"Please, just leave me alone."

He can't stand the tear-streaked face that turns towards them, the distraught and disoriented look of a good woman who's seen too much, known too little, loved too often.

"CJ," he whispers, forlorn. She stands almost immediately, scrubbing her face with the heels of her hands, adjusting her skirt and turning off the TV.

"What d'you need?" she asks brusquely, scraping at the mascara smeared across her cheeks. Steve shifts; Danny glances away. "Guys?"

"CJ, God, I…"

Steve steps forward; a blank manila envelope appears in his hands, unmarked and ominous.

"I don't even know if you wanna know, but…"

He holds it into the abyss. She leans over the desk and takes it with nerveless fingers.

"What is it?"

They look away from her.

"Guys?"

"They're pictures," Danny forces out.

Her fingers slip beneath the flap, pushing up to the top.

"Pictures of what?"

She pulls the glossy images out, gives one furrowed-brow glance at Danny, and looks down at what she holds in her hand.

And suddenly, she understands.

- - -

_She's laughing when she hears it._

_Champagne and cocktails, black dresses and ruffled red skirts, silk ties and polished patent shoes. She runs a delicate hand through short curls, shudders as Leon slips one meaty arm around her waist._

"_What a _gorgeous _ring, Mandy. How big?"_

"_32 karats," Leon says proudly, shoving her left hand beneath their noses. She smiles and panders, wonders what the hell she left the White House for. Nine hundred thousand a year, and she feels like shit every damn day._

"_Darling, this is Brian Turner from—"_

"_AIPAC," she nods, extending a white-gloved hand. "We met at the New Year's gala last year."_

"_Quite the charmer you were, Madeline," he says, kissing the silk. He leaves a faint orange stain, and she pulls the hand quickly back to her side. Leon continues as if she isn't even there._

"_I suppose Zeigler gave you a hard time?"_

"_He accused us of being _happy _about it," Brian sighs melodramatically. "Which, of course, is ludicrous. We aren't _happy _about anyone dying, but I couldn't resist a good 'I told you so.'"_

_She flags a waiter, laughing snottily with the rest as she begs for more alcohol._

"_The CODEL was a walking bulls-eye. I honestly don't know what Bartlet was thinking, sending a Jew to Palestine."_

_Her fingers slip a little on the glass; she takes one steadying sip before asking._

"_What happened to the CODEL?"_

"_Oh, it was bombed," Brian shrugs casually. Nonchalant, he takes a little crepe. "Delicious, aren't they?"_

"_The CODEL was bombed," she repeats, feeling her brain melting out through her ears. Every second in this idiot's presence drains her IQ._

"_Yes. I think everyone died."_

_He smiles, showing a bit of lettuce stuck to his chin._

"_Oh well. Time to bomb back, I suppose."_

_The ring slips off her finger, drops with a muffled thump onto the carpeting._

"_I suppose," she repeats, hollow._

- - -


	6. Chapter 5: Fear Based Initiative

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** Okay, I did not know when I wrote the last chapter that Joey Lucas was pregnant during _The Benign Prerogative_. Somehow, that just cracks me up.  
This chapter upped the rating due to some graphic description, but I want you to know that any gore/violence/sexual language appearing in this fiction (or any others I author, for that matter) is not gratuitous and is only used to serve the theme of the story.  
And as always, thank you for your patience.

**Chapter Five: Fear-Based Initiative**

**8:03 PM**

The first is Donna.

**After the Address**

Her eyes are closed, mouth slack and crimson-speckled. Blood pools beneath her head, trickles over a bluish eyelid and into her limp hair. Little cuts fleck her upside-down face, tiny slits in sensitive alabaster skin.

He's thankful they're only headshots.

Josh is next, slumping blearily into the frame, tattered shirt gathering under his chin. A pair of sunglasses, rims twisted and lenses shattered, peek from the lower right corner. His empty face is soaked in blood.

Leo drops the photos with shaking fingers, covers his face with his hands and waits it out.

Beyond the door, he hears a cameraman call the out, and he slips the photos back into their sheath.

Moments later, Jed's charging through the door.

"Twenty minutes before I went on air?"

"Yes, sir. CNN picked them up first from AP, then FOX and MSNBC," he swallows, pushing the envelope across the table. "Have you seen them yet?"

"No."

Jed makes no move towards the envelope.

"Has Mrs. Lyman?"

"I don't think so," Leo sighs. "Margaret let her wander a bit."

"Good," Jed nods. "Has someone—?"

"I called the Mosses, told them to turn off the TV for awhile."

"Did they?"

"Yeah," Leo nods. "I don't think they were really watching to begin with, but…"

"Yeah," Jed says, sighing. "Yeah."

He flicks the edge of the envelope with one finger, afraid.

- - -

_Charlie's panting too hard to get the words out; he bends, doubled over, in the doorway._

"_Charlie, what the hell—?"_

"_The CODEL," he forces out, hands on his knees. "Something happened, sir."_

_Leo comes from his adjoining door, crashes into the room with CJ in tow._

"_Mr. President—"_

_Charlie points one finger at them, gasping. He'd run all the way from Babish's office._

"_What happened to the CODEL?" Jed asks, standing._

"_A few minutes ago, sir," CJ begins, shaking. "There was a bombing in Gaza."_

_He looks then at Leo and knows he'll see the all-familiar pain reflected back._

"_Do we know—?"_

"_Nothing, sir," she says, emphasizing with a snappish shake of her head. "It's just happened."_

_He swallows hard, lets this sink deeper as he falls back into the chair, hands covering his face._

- - -

Abbey arrives thirty-two minutes after the speech; she heads straight for the Oval.

"Zoey?" she asks, preempting a hello as she kisses her husband's cheek.

"I sent Charlie up to the Residence, to sit with her," Jed replies.

"Margaret mentioned that Josh's mother is here."

"Yeah," Jed sighs. "She's wandering around somewhere. I don't know where she—"

"I know," Abbey says, grim and reminiscent and tired. Off Jed's look, "Mother's intuition."

He nods once. Abbey's hand caresses his arm gently.

"Jed?"

"I've got the Israeli ambassador waiting," he sighs. She smiles at him, sorrowful and understanding.

"You should go, then."

"Yeah," he sighs, turning away.

- - -

_Jed stands at the door, where he knows they can't hear him._

"_Any news on Josh and Donna?" Charlie asks, anxious._

"_Nothing," Will replies softly. Then, as he hears Leo enter, "What's going to be our response?"_

"_What do you want it to be?" Leo fires back. He's shielding well with anger._

"_Regime change."_

"_Take out the chairman," CJ snaps, agitated and hasty. She sips something noisily, curses bitterly when droplets splatter her blouse._

"_He _is _the impediment."_

_Such a funny voice of reason. He wishes he'd gotten to know the boy a bit better._

"'_The Palestinians never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity.'"_

_Ah, jaded Mr. Ziegler of the Coney Island Killjoys. He'll have to remember to mention that he's happy Andi's okay._

"_Abu Eban's line," Leo sighs._

"_Well, the guy in Tel Aviv hasn't been a picnic either," Will replies, the grimace in his tone. Jed shifts a bit, peers through the crack in his door._

"_State's convinced nothing can happen 'til these two guys are gone," Leo tells them, fatigued as he leans on the edge of Charlie's desk._

_They stand in a ragged circle, arranged somehow for his benefit. Will closest, standing in the veritable doorway, then Leo against Charlie's desk and Charlie himself behind it, over to Toby's frantic pacing, the beginnings of a rut on the floor beneath him, to Kate and CJ, resolute beside Debbie's desk._

"_Israel is not the problem," Will scoffs._

"_The settlement, the wall…"_

_The others glare at CJ; she seems to shrink into herself._

"_Israel didn't just blow Americans up," Charlie says, surprisingly cold._

"_I'm not saying there's equivalence."_

"_Israelis don't talk about driving Palestinians into the sea."_

_The young profile is bitter and arrogant. He sighs in silence and wonders where the ballsy son-of-a-bitch who got a dead guy elected went to._

"_Some do," Harper adds, soft._

"_Oh, come _on_."_

_He thinks it should be interesting, a battle of the sexes without any funny games._

"_Ever heard the phrase 'Greater Israel'?"_

_Leo raises his eyebrows, regards the woman with half a glance._

"_Not from anyone serious."_

_Considerate Kate, a beacon of sense and logic._

"_One reason some people say nothing can happen 'til these guys are gone is the feeling they both may be stuck in old attitudes or assumptions. There was a time when Palestinians and all Arabs wanted to drive Jews into the sea, but some would argue that time has past."_

"_Listen to some Arab broadcasts."_

_She rolls her eyes at Will. He can almost see the beginnings of something there, blurring the lines in the midday sunlight._

"_Rabble-rousing to distract their street," CJ adds, half-hearted, slumped against a bookshelf out of his sight._

"_I'm not sure any credible Arab leader truly expects Israel's demise anymore, not even the chairman."_

_He bets Mrs. Landingham would've given her a cookie._

"_Don't be so sure," Leo says, condescending and dismissive._

"_Well," she says, bittersweet consistency, "there's a view that—"_

"_Stop saying 'some argue' and 'there's a view'!"_

_They're all startled by the anger in Will's face._

"_Can we restrict it to _your _view?"_

"_Fine. Palestinians are no longer fighting to destroy the Jewish state. They're fighting for a state of their own, a revolutionary struggle against an occupying force, and revolutionaries will outlast and out-die occupiers every time."_

_Will scoffs coldly at Kate._

"_I don't know if that's more simplistic or naïve."_

"_It's tribal," Toby cuts in. He hears the rapid back-and-forth footfalls of Toby's frenetic pacing, detects the tiny hinted strain of tension riding a thin wire. "It can't be solved. It's Hatfield and McCoy, and there is no end."_

"_We have to retaliate," Will says._

_CJ shakes her head slowly, "Responding militarily makes us a combatant."_

"_Well, when they attack our people, they've pretty much made that choice for us."_

"_Or," Kate steps in, "we use this as an opportunity. Employ the moral authority to re-engage and aggressively press both sides for peace."_

"_We need to kill them!"_

_The door almost swings shut; he catches the knob barely in time._

"_We need to find them, and we need to kill them," Toby continues, wild and ranting and growing louder by the second. "We kill them. Then we find out who sent them, and we kill them too!"_

"_Toby…"_

_CJ reaches out; he shoves her hand violently away._

"_You—you kill the people who did it, you kill the people who planned it, and then you kill everyone who's happy about it!"_

_He hears the silence, goes slowly back to his desk and presses a button._

_Debbie's voice, soft and commanding, floats back._

"_The president will see you now."_

- - -

They make three circuits of the lobby and the Roosevelt Room before Abbey realizes Sylvia isn't even listening.

"I'm sorry," she says, pausing by the Mural Room. "You're probably tired of everyone passing you back and forth and…"

She twists her hands together, trying to wring the awkwardness from her skin.

"When Zoey was kidnapped, I just wanted everyone to leave me alone and—"

"I remember when that happened."

"I'm sorry," she says again, looking to the carpet for answers. Sylvia sighs, glances down the hallway.

"Dr. Bartlet," she begins, "three times now we've walked through the White House. You've shown me the Mess, the door to the Situation Room, the counsel's office, the staircase, the Communications bullpen, the Oval Office, the Mural Room, the Roosevelt Room, the northwest lobby, and every single hall in between. Your daughter was returned to you after 72 hours. My son is coming back to me in a casket. I'd like to at least see where he worked."

Abbey's mouth flexes uselessly; her wide eyes dart back and forth. Her watery gaze dries, and Sylvia gives a half-smile.

"I'll yell for someone if I need anything."

"I…yes," Abbey says, nodding and collecting calm. "That'll be fine. I'll…well, I'll be nearby."

"Thank you," Sylvia says.

She turns and pushes through the door. Unaffected and utterly ineffectual, Abbey watches her walk away.

- - -

_He doesn't know how they got down here or where the time came from._

_Leo's hands are shaking too badly to hold onto anything. Just this once, Jed opens the door for himself._

"_He's sending his _condolences_," Hutchinson scoffs. "It's not like the country's dog got hit by a car, Kate."_

"_Mr. President," she says, jumping up. He sighs and gestures for them all to sit._

"_The chairman called back?"_

"_Yes, sir," Harper says, shuffling to the transcript._

"_He said he sends his condolences."_

_Jed blinks._

"_His condolences," Leo says, that dazed expression clearing quickly. "Over the assassination of five U.S. government officials?"_

"_He says the Palestinian Authority condemns the attack," Kate adds._

"_I doubt that very much," Jed says. "Do they know who did it?"_

"_Undoubtedly," Alexander says stiffly. "But he wouldn't tell us."_

"_Sir, we need to start considering targets for retaliation—"_

_Jed tunes out, looks at his hands. He twists the gold band on his finger around and around._

_Abbey's in Manchester. The Mosses are watching the news in Madison, Mrs. Lyman is making coffee in Palm Beach, and Josh and Donna are lying in body bags in Israel._

"_Sir…?" Leo says, drawing him back._

_He blinks once more, returns to reality. The table watches him carefully._

"_General, I've only just received the news about the confirmation maybe five minutes ago, so I apologize in advance for any half-formed thoughts I may share."_

"_Mr. President, sir," Kate swallows. "The FBI team is landing in twelve hours; maybe we should wait for—"_

"_You can't possibly be suggesting that we _ignore—"

_Hutchinson adds his half-sense, and the ambience dissolves to some dumbass pissing contest he's just too damn tired for._

"_I asked them to go," he says suddenly. "I asked Fitz and Josh and Donna to go."_

_They are quiet at his command; Leo looks withdrawn. He's hiding his shaking hands beneath the table._

"_Mr. President," Alexander begins, prying and pacifying. Jed stands._

"_I'd like to observe a moment of silence in commemoration of those dedicated individuals who gave their lives in the service of their country this day."_

_They bow their heads, a conciliatory prayer, and he knocks the table once with a tired knuckle._

"_I have to call the families of the victims now," he says. "General, prepare contingency plans for retaliatory military action against Palestinian terror targets, including the chairman's headquarters."_

_The door bangs against the wall as he leaves, Leo trailing behind._

- - -

"I have this image of caskets."

He puffs on the end of his twenty-fourth cigarette of the day.

"I feel like I'm going to wake up the rest of my life from dreams about caskets rolling off planes."

Abbey perches herself on the edge of the bench, shivering and pulling a gauzy wrap closer around her shoulders.

"Mrs. Lyman wants to meet the bodies at Dover."

He doesn't glance at his wife, and Jed finds he's largely unsurprised when Abbey plucks the cigarette from his dangling fingers and takes a pull of her own.

"I saw Charlie and Zoey together upstairs."

"Yeah?"

"They fell asleep in front of the TV. I brought them another blanket."

Jed nods, studying the chessboard.

"King's knight to five."

"I'll lose him to a pawn."

"Yeah, but you'll take the last bishop."

"Where?" he asks, uncertain.

"Couple moves down."

She leans her head back, rubs her eyes as Jed nods again and shuffles the pieces.

"They're cute together."

"Who?"

"I never noticed that before. That they're cute."

"Who are?" Jed repeats.

"Charlie and Zoey."

He blows into his hands, rubs his wedding band back and forth over a chaffed knuckle.

"It's cold."

"How come you never liked them together?"

He shuffles a pawn forward.

"Liked who?"

Abbey gives him a look of derision.

"Charlie and Zoey."

"I liked them," he says, quiet and defensive.

"You broke them up."

"They broke up with each other."

"Because you kept them away from each other. Come to think of it, you keep lots of people apart."

"Abbey…"

"Fine."

She holds up her hands, head lolling back and forth on the bench. They sit in silence for some time, not really enjoying the company but happy not to be alone. An agent down the way coughs.

"Why are you out here playing chess with yourself?"

"I'm avoiding a call from Miles Hutchinson."

"Dodging the Secretary of Defense? I thought you only did that to the UN Secretary General."

"Parking tickets take little precedence over national security. Or so Leo tells me."

"Shouldn't you be in the Sit Room?"

"Dammit, Abbey."

"Jed…"

"Can you just be the one person right now who isn't begging me to kill thousands of people I've never met?"

She's shocked by the outburst, though more, it seems, by the softness of his tone than by the words themselves.

"Jed, honey…"

He stands abruptly.

"It's hell, Abbey. Every damn story, every person talking to me—"

"You saw the pictures," she says quietly.

"Yeah," Jed sighs. "One of the reporters got us advance copies of them, but I didn't…I saw the newscast."

"Jed."

"I did that to them, Abbey."

She opens her mouth to reply, but he's already away, opening the door to the portico and leaving her alone.

- - -

_He wishes Leo'd turned the other way, gone for the other door._

_He met her once before, at some New England fundraiser during reelection. She'd struck him as small but commanding, the classic Jewish mother. He remembers the pride he'd seen in her eyes as she watched Josh, her darling baby boy._

_He wishes Leo hadn't asked her to come down here. He wishes, selfishly, that she'd just stayed in Florida._

_Inside, Jed feels sick, sitting here with Sylvia Lyman on the couches in the Oval Office._

"_Will they be arriving at Dover?"_

"_I'm sorry?"_

"_Will they be arriving at Dover?" she repeats, setting down the untouched tea. "The bodies, I mean."_

"_Sylvie…"_

"_If they are," she says, ignoring Leo, "I'd like to meet them there."_

"_I'm sure it could be arranged."_

_They take awkward little sips, eyes roaming the walls, the carpet, the couches—anything but each other._

_He's never been so thankful to see Debbie in all his life._

"_Mr. President, CJ for you."_

- - -

He cringes at the sudden rush of hot air over his body as he steps back inside; he forgets that the cameras and lights heat the room like that after an address. Abbey stays on the bench outside, staring at the chessboard.

"Well, you're kinda screwed."

"_Josh_."

He swallows hard, fingers gripping the knob to painful whiteness. When he turns, he sees them there.

Sprawled casually across the couch, Josh grins at him from behind a delicate veil of blood and bruises. Donna curls sinuously around his side, mangled legs tucked beneath her. Her smooth left arm, surprisingly untouched, is snaked around Josh's swollen neck, pale hand caressing the splintered stump of Josh's left shoulder.

Donna's right leg lies in butchered chunks across the carpet; a waterfall of scarlet cascades over the eagle's olive branches. Warm blood pumps a thick red fountain from a wild gash in her slender neck, soaking the couch's creamy brocade. Two grapefruit-sized holes, cratered in Josh's abdomen, mist a fine spray of crimson over his charred jeans.

"Sorry 'bout the…"

He rolls his marred shoulder; a blobby something, black and glutinous, slides down the blue of his tattered shirt.

"—lack of formality, but…" Josh smiles, half-dimpled, "it was long walk."

"'Cross an ocean," Bartlet nods, fighting the bile.

"Walkin' on water," Josh shrugs, small smirk tugging at his mouth. "You missed the second coming."

Sick, fighting every step, Jed slides his feet across the carpet, approaches the nightmares on his couch.

"How are you, Mr. President?" Donna asks gently as he sets himself into the accustomed armchair, leaning out to touch his sleeve, as if _he_'s the one who needs comfort.

"I'm fine," he replies sharply, pulling away from the slender, ghost-thin fingers.

"It's okay," Donna grimaces, placating and too kind. "I wouldn't wanna touch me either."

He leans back, feels himself sink into the cushions. He closes his eyes, puts his hands over his face, and knows that they're still there. He thinks maybe, just maybe, if he hopes hard enough, he can make the tide come in and the ghosts inside him leave.

"Mrs. Landingham couldn't make it this time. Said to say hello."

Jed blinks.

"You're not crazy, Mr. President," Donna assures him. "And we're not really here."

"You're just exercising a guilty conscience," Josh grins, wide and dimpled. "We'll be gone when you're ready."

_Ready for what?_ he wonders but doesn't say a word.

"Why are you here?"

"To help," Donna smiles, bright and sharp and cheery. Thin trails of blood trickle from the cuts on her face, leave small red smears when she pushes her hair back over her shoulder.

"I'm the guy the guy counts on," Josh grins, dimples dulled by a bluish-purple tinge. The bruises deepen those chronic circles beneath his eyes, framing the brown in mottled black.

Jed runs his fingers over the chair's polished wooden arms.

"They want me to bomb," he says heavily, a quiet sigh escaping into the night. The mantle clock on his sideboard is too far away to read.

"Bomb who?"

"Anyone. Everyone. No one at all."

"That's one hell of a list," Josh yawns, grin slipping. "Who're you gonna do first?"

"Palestine."

"Good luck," Donna says, giving a singularly lady-like little sneer. "You might as well bomb all of Israel."

"Should I?" Jed asks mildly.

"You're asking Donna for advice on foreign policy?" Josh asks, eyebrows raised. "You're definitely crazy."

"Do you know who did it?"

Donna brings back the serious, shifting her arm behind Josh's head. Jed gets the sudden sickening impression that if she removes her arm, Josh's head will simply flop back, limp and unnatural.

A funny little wrinkle appears between her brows when he doesn't answer right away.

"No," Jed admits at last. "Hutchinson wants me to start bombing Farad, just in case."

Josh nods, rolling this around in his head.

"Might not be a bad course," he says. "Chairman's no angel."

"Well, neither am I," Jed returns. "And he's not letting the grass grow. The Palestinian Authority police made a night raid into the Jabaliya refugee camp."

Donna looks hopeful.

"Any chance they're the right people?"

Jed grimaces, "The Israelis say no."

"Did they wanna think about it for a second?" Josh says, incredulous.

"Hutchinson says it was just the chairman settling old scores."

Josh nods as best he can.

"Well, he did take action," Donna says reasonably.

"We're awarding A's for effort now?" Josh snaps back. It's a perfect blend of cynicism and love, and the look Josh gives Donna makes Jed feel the voyeur in his own waking nightmare.

"Kate says it's what he's been accused of never making."

Jed leans his head back with a sigh.

"So we don't know who did it, or even if they meant to, and we don't know how we'd hit them if we ever _did_ find out who it was. And we don't know who these guys were that the chairman arrested or why."

"So start figuring that stuff out," Josh shrugs.

Jed sighs again.

"I don't know," he says. "I don't know what to do anymore, Josh."

He hears the cloth shift, opens his eyes and looks at them.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," he confesses quietly.

Josh's eyes are black and glittery; his mouth turns down at a sharp angle.

"Are you kidding?" he asks harshly.

Jed blinks. Anger was not what he had expected.

"You want me to feel _sorry_ for you? They're still picking pieces of me up off the road in Erez!"

"_Josh_," Donna admonishes. "Don't be morbid."

"It's the truth!" he replies, cynical laughter in the tone. "We're dead, Donna. Me and you. You're an _also-dead_."

He sees the tears well in her eyes, remembers the light dig from a few months ago.

"What does that mean?" he asks, soft. "That she's an 'also-dead'?"

"You tell me," Josh grins. "Your psychosis."

Jed studies his hands closely, traces the deep grooves of one palm.

"What should I do?" he whispers. "What should I do, Josh?"

"I'm a domestic policy advisor," Josh shrugs. "How the hell should I know?"

"You said you're here 'til I'm ready."

"Ready for what, Mr. President?"

He blinks again, looks up at Donna.

"You were hoping we could tell you," she says, a half-smile tracing slowly across her face. "Oh, sir, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he replies. "I sent you there."

"You asked me to go on the CODEL," Josh says firmly. "And I said okay. Jesus."

He gives a short laugh, rolls his eyes. Donna shifts her arm, lets his head settle a bit straighter.

"You're almost worse than I am, Jed," he says. "You can't fix everything."

Jed doesn't even start at the informal address; he just looks down at his hands. He can't look at them anymore, their torn bodies and ruined faces. It's in the way they touch, the closeness they share, the slight tilt of Donna's head towards Josh's shoulder, and God, it kills.

Josh gives a tight smile.

"It's done, Mr. President," he says, gentle and understanding and too kind to really be Josh, and it hurts so bad to know this lie is the last time he'll see them. The last time he'll see them like this, together. "You can't change what happened. You can't prevent hurricanes, and you can't stop bullets or drunk drivers, and no matter how loud you shout…you can't make the tide come in."

He closes his eyes and drops his head, feels the tightness in the back of his throat.

"You made a promise, Josh."

"I've made a lot of promises."

They stand; he hears the blood pooled in Josh's lap splash to the floor. He looks up, sees Josh leaning drunkenly against Donna, two legs where there should've been four.

"I've broken most of them."

They turn and go for the door; he looks back at the unsoiled carpet. Josh's fractured fingers close around the knob with a click of fingernails.

"Get off the mat, Jed," he calls back softly.

The door snaps open and shut.

"Mr. President?"

His head jerks up; frail Debbie is standing in the doorway.

"Mr. President, Secretary Hutchinson and Commander Harper to see you."

He nods.

"Send them in."

- - -

_They'd turned off every television set after CJ came. A courtesy thing, he guesses._

"_Five minutes to air," a staffer calls out, scrambling from the Oval._

_He'd shoved the envelope at Leo, the letter bomb searing his fingers. Told him to put it away somewhere, get it the hell out of the room, get it the hell away from _him

"_I can't see those now," he'd said. "Just get that away from me."_

_And Leo'd done just that, taken the apple from Eve and retreated to his office._

_But here Jed stands, before a TV monitor, watching the images float across the screen, gobbling up every word from the commentators._

"AP is refusing to name their source, and the White House has not yet issued a statement."

"_I've got a comment right here, you jackass," Bartlet growls, almost involuntarily, and looks around quickly. There's no one around to notice._

"No, Mark, CJ Cregg has _not_ held another briefing since this afternoon, when she announced the names of the five victims."

_He hates how they do that. Who honestly needs to restate a question like that? This isn't a damn short-answer exam._

"_Three minutes to air, Mr. President," Nancy says, touching his shoulder lightly. He jumps, flips the TV off, and nods._

"_Thanks, Nancy," he says, taking a deep breath and heading into the glare._

- - -

He's pensive when Hutchinson and Harper leave, silent when Abbey arrives.

"I checked on Zoey," she says, flopping onto the couch. He winces, seeing the ghost of Donna's mutilated pose from barely an hour ago reflected in his wife's posture. "She's asleep in her bed. Charlie's roaming around here somewhere."

"Mrs. Lyman?"

"Wandering the halls," she sighs. "She wanted to see where…where he worked."

"Yeah," he sighs in turn, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He sees the clock now; it reads 10:42.

"Yeah," he repeats, hitching his pants and settling onto a couch. "I'm gonna take her to Dover. When they get here."

"When are they—?"

"FBI needs time with the remains."

His mouth twists in an ugly way around the words, a bitter, spiteful hate on his tongue.

"What was Miles Hutchinson in here for?"

"Nothing."

She gives him a mild look.

"You don't see the Secretary of Defense over nothing, Jed."

He presses his fingers deep into his eyes, trying to gouge the pain out.

"Israeli gunships fired missiles into an apartment house in Gaza City. They were targeting a Hamas leader. There were twelve killed, including four children. There's no word yet on whether the Hamas leader is among the dead."

Abbey gives a little gasp, reaches across the space for him.

"Oh, _God_, Jed…"

"Hutchinson thinks the Israelis got tired of waiting for me to respond. Kate thinks I should give it more time."

He shoves himself up before she can touch him; he can't wash the feeling of Josh and Donna away, and it scares him how much he doesn't want to. Abbey lets her hand fall back into her lap, limp and half-curled.

"It doesn't take the bishop."

"What?"

"King's knight. It was—"

He waves an arm, dismissive.

"It was hours ago, but I just can't…"

He sighs, grips the top of the chair in his hands.

"It doesn't take the bishop," he says. "Takes the whole damn board."

Her eyes are flooded with confusion.

"Jed."

"What should I do?" he asks, turning and stalking out onto the portico. He leaves the room, but he can't leave it behind. Their ghosts are watching from the windows, and it kills him to know he'll dream of caskets.


	7. Chapter 6: In the Shadow of Two Murders

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** Okay, this isn't getting any easier. Those of you waiting for the actual J/D part of this to start? Hang in there. It's coming.

**Chapter Six: In the Shadow of Two Murders, Part One**

He calls Mal, just in case.

**10:47 PM**

"Hey kid. I know you're probably asleep."

**After the Address**

"Look, I just wanted…"

He sighs, leans back in his chair. He's staring at the photos again, and he fights the sudden, strong compulsion to smash them all.

"If you're asleep, don't wake up. And…and if you're awake, you don't have to pick up."

He pulls forward that one photo again, that picture of him and Josh and Donna and Sam and Toby and CJ on Election Night the First, cherry-red noses and chapped hands and wooly scarves pulled tight beneath their chins.

"I just wanted to call. To see if you're okay."

He runs a thick fingertip over Donna's pale face, Josh's arm settled gently around her waist.

"I wanted to tell you that I…that I love you, Mal. I love you so much. And I miss you."

Leo jabs the button quickly, lets the dial tone catch his tears.

He wonders when he stopped thinking of them as two separate people.

- - -

_Will walks the final draft down to the Oval at 7:57, and Toby's already halfway out the door. Sam stays on the couch, staring at his hands._

"_Will you be okay in here?" he asks, pulling on jacket, snuffing out his cigar._

"_I'll be fine," Sam says, soft and hollow. "I saw Ginger around here somewhere. I'll yell if I need anything."_

_And he knows it's all a show, a conciliatory acquiescence, Sam's gentle and amicable way of saying, "Get off my back," so Toby turns away and does just that._

_He leaves his phone on Bonnie's desk and the last rubber ball bouncing down the hall towards the lobby. His feet find their own way out, and he hears the beginning of the address floating away into the dark._

"My fellow Americans. Good evening."

_Slow and measured, like his own metronome. It's been a high blood-pressure day. Have to stay out of sight._

"This morning we lost five distinguished Americans in a despicable act of terror in the Middle East."

_His shoes squeak on the marble; he doesn't even raise his eyes to Ed and Larry as he passes the Roosevelt Room._

"I come before you tonight shocked and saddened by our loss, and angered as we all are at the tragedy thrust upon us."

_He'd called it Tolkien. Will had called it flame-thrower language. Sam had stared at his hands, cold and empty and somehow so alone._

"The search is underway for those responsible. I ask for your patience while we hunt for answers."

_Toby likes this next part best._

"And as we pray with those who grieve, let us resolve to search not only for justice, but also for a just end to this senseless cycle of violence."

_It's tribal. Hatfield and McCoy. Abbott and Costello. Batman and Robin._

_It doesn't end._

"Thank you. Good night, and God bless America."

_The President's voice follows him out into the night._

- - -

She doesn't go into the bullpen.

She'd had every intention, when she left Abbey behind, to march right through that door and up to Josh's desk.

Her resolve had crumbled, like so many times before, at the first flickering glance.

Sylvia's made five more circuits by now, angry tears rolling down her cheeks as she clenches white-knuckled fists.

She goes around and around in drunken circles, veering and avoiding and cursing herself with every passing second.

The ninth time she passes the darkened Roosevelt Room, Sylvia glances left.

The place is strangely empty of staffers, the windows and doorways dead and dim. She traces an etching of the presidential seal on one of the doors. Abbey'd called this one the Communications area.

She pushes through the door.

The lights are low; the door to the office on her right is closed tight. The door to the other office, the one she knows to be Toby's, is slightly ajar. She sees the back of a dark, down-turned head through the window.

She knocks lightly on the door, and the slumped form straightens. The smile creasing the corner of her eyes is a prelude to tears.

"Sam, honey," she says. "I didn't know you were here."

"Mrs. Lyman," he says, and that's all they need. Sylvia settles herself beside him. "I didn't know _you_ were here."

She takes his hand in her own, running thinned fingers over his smooth palm.

"Would you like to talk?" she asks, timorous. He squeezes her fingers and nods.

"I think I would."

- - -

_She runs all the way back to her office. Carol's there, waiting, and CJ slams the door in her face, collapses against the wall and begins, once more, to cry._

_She slides to a crouch, hands covering her face, chest creaking and searing with the force of breath as she tries to fight it. She stays there until the speech._

"_CJ."_

_Carol knocks softly._

"_He's about to go on."_

"_Thanks," she says, choking and stifling her tears. Carol waits a moment longer; CJ doesn't turn the TV on until she leaves._

_After the obligatory "My fellow Americans", CJ mutes the president._

"_He looks tired," she says, loud and jarring._

_The president sits behind his desk, face shiny and hands turning over and over. She stares into his eyes, trying to read what's there. He fidgets; his eyes dart back and forth between the camera and the prompter. His glasses, glinting and obvious, are beside his elbow._

_When the speech is over, she flips off the TV and curls back onto the couch._

_She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the cushions._

_He was wringing his hands on national television. She smiles softly into her fist, feels the tears trickle over her skin._

_He always did wear his guilt like a badge of honor._

- - -

He thinks it started during the campaign. Maybe even that very first day, the way they moved and spoke, so tentative and hopeful and dangling their feet.

Leo stares at his computer screen a moment longer, makes a decision and flicks it to life.

It had to have been the first day. Or maybe that first day after she'd left. The way he'd seemed to quiet and sullen in their brisk and bustling meetings; CJ casting him pitying glances and Abbey speaking to him so benignly and even the president (then, the governor, he supposes), had seen something.

As always, Leo had been clueless to the change. Completely oblivious to the actual _moment_ of the transformation, that very second he'd stop seeing them as just one or the other, but both together.

The day he'd stopped thinking of Josh and Donna as two separate people.

For the first time, he's glad Margaret wrote down the instructions on how to get into his e-mail.

She's sitting outside at her desk, shoulders slumped and shaking with silent sobs. If he were a better man, he supposes, he'd be out there right now comforting her.

Today, he's only got enough pity for himself.

He opens the folder, stares at the two weeks' worth of unopened letters, unfelt love blended with irritation.

He smiles as something bursts, hot and harsh, inside him. They even used the same e-mail address.

He doesn't want to think that this is the last time he'll get something new from them. The last time he'll hear a good joke, the last time he'll laugh, the last time he'll cry, the very last time he won't see them as Josh and Donna, but as something whole and complete and beautiful.

He recognizes this as depression. The last step before he's ready. The last step before they're really gone.

"Hey."

Leo looks up, surprise coloring his face.

"Hey."

He's forgotten anyone else is in the building.

Jed leans against the doorframe, hands in pockets. His whole body exudes a terrible weariness, a feeling of oppression and misery so deep as to have almost no identifiable source.

"I was just…"

Leo looks back at the screen, back at the piles of past he's yet to regret.

"I was just reading some e-mails."

"Yeah?"

The president pushes off the wall and wanders his chief's office. Leo rises.

"From who?"

"From…"

He can't say it. Can't say their names. When he does—

"Yeah," Jed says again with a slow nod, knowing what he means.

Leo drops onto the couch, frozen, unfeeling. Jed sits beside him.

"I hadn't read any of them," Leo admits. "Not one, not since they left."

"How come?"

Leo looks at him with a smile.

"You really had to ask?"

Jed laughs softly.

"They go on and on for pages about every damn thing they've seen and heard and did and—"

It's there again. That indefinable place, the part where he knows there's Donna, and he knows there's Josh, but they both blend so beautifully into one damn thing.

"I just didn't have the time," Leo says quietly. Jed glances at the glowing screen.

"We've got time now."

- - -

_He spends most of the time staring at the carpet, but he gives the occasional glance to the phone, and once, he looks right at the TV._

_It's a superstitious thing, he guesses. Like the guys who don't wash that one pair of socks before the big game, or the people who pray to pagan gods to win the lottery, the people who throw salt over their shoulders and keep umbrellas closed inside._

_He doesn't watch the president speak. Can't watch this time. Can't jinx it._

_Sam isn't superstitious. He doesn't throw salt, he walks under ladders, he steps on cracks in the sidewalk, and he thinks Friday the 13__th__ was just a series of very bad movies._

_But he can't watch the president speak tonight._

_Toby's gone. Will walked the speech down, hasn't come back yet._

_Sam sighs, rests his head in his hands, and tries to enjoy the silence._

"_What is the most ubiquitous man-made object in America that does not interact with any mechanism or machine?" he whispers, a choked-off laugh burning his throat._

_He holds his breath for the answer that isn't coming, and this, at last, makes him cry._

- - -

"I think I'll stick around for a few days."

Their entwined hands rest on Sylvia's lap. Sam leans his chin on his other fist, gazing blankly to the distance.

"I'm sure they'll need your help," Sylvia says encouragingly, the tone soft and sad. "Josh used to tell me how much they all missed you."

The ventilation provides a soft buzz in ambience, and an errant bug tinks against the window.

"Mal would like it back here. Me and her and the baby in our own little place in Georgetown."

"You could live by the Potomac," she offers. "Mallory always liked the ocean."

Sam falls back into the depressed cushions of the couch, pulling his hand from hers.

"Josh wanted children," he says. "Not always, but…after Toby had Huck and Molly, he really wanted a baby. But he never…"

Sylvia smiles, a painful and bittersweet expression of deepest regret.

"They would've made good parents."

"Would've," Sam agrees, and they lapse once more into silence. Sylvia's eyes shift to the carpet.

"What are we doing here, Sam?" she asks quietly. His fingers flex slightly in his lap.

"This can't be how it goes."

Sylvia glances at him.

"This just…it _can't_ be how it goes," Sam repeats, disbelieving, shaking his head slowly. "They spent their whole lives…they loved each other _so_ much and they never…they never _had_…"

"They were in love," Sylvia says. "Sometimes that's enough."

"But…" Sam sputters, momentary. "There…there has to be…"

Tears begin to flow, harsh and hot, down his face.

"This can't be the way it works," he says. "They should've…They deserved _more_ than that; they—"

"Sam," she says softly.

"They just got into a _car_," he continues. "All they did was get up in the morning and eat breakfast and read the paper and…"

"Sam," Sylvia repeats, a little less gentle.

And he doesn't know what makes some men walk into general stores, makes some old women buy new cars, makes some people smile and wave to the cheering crowds as they leave a building, or makes a man and a woman step into a car on a bright sunny morning halfway across the world.

"There's just this," he says, hollow. "Maybe there's just this."

Sylvia runs her thumb over the back of his hand.

"There is just this," she says, firm and tremulous at once, wavering and certain. "Sometimes there's death and planes crash and people fall out of love, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. I want to say it gets better, that eventually things balance out, you get as much good as bad, but…"

The first sob shocks him; Sam stares at Sylvia's crumbling face, feels helpless as he watches a woman who could be his own mother fall to pieces.

He shakes his head, slow.

"Why did you come here, Mrs. Lyman?" Sam asks, squeezing her hand. She wipes at her eyes with her fingers, giving up on the crumpled kerchief in her lap.

"The same reason you did," she replies, soft. Sam watches, eyes dry. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

- - -

_His fingers tremble as he leaves the Oval, the envelope held far in front of his body. At any moment, he expects it to explode._

_Sylvia rises from the couch as he closes the door, crosses to his desk._

"_The president's going to give his address now," he tells her. Sylvia ducks her head at the envelope._

"_What's that?"_

"_Intelligence report," he says, dismissive, dropping it casually on the desk. "Classified, obviously."_

"_Obviously," Sylvia echoes. She rubs her hands together, fretful._

_Next door, he can hear the lights and cameras rolling in._

"_Leo," she says suddenly. "Would it be alright if I walked around for awhile?"_

"_I don't…"_

_He hears the drone of voices through every door; his eyes land on CJ's blank envelope._

"_Yeah," he hears himself saying. "Go ahead. Margaret can show you around."_

_She leaves, shuts the door behind her. Locks him in his little oaken cage._

_Fingers trembling, Leo reaches for the envelope and takes the pictures out._

_He knows, deep inside, this won't be the last time he sees them._

- - -

Toby finds Will wandering the Mural Room, dragoons Bonnie and Ginger along the way, and decides in about a minute that they should just hijack the Mess.

"Where's Sam?"

"Still in your office," Will tells him, already heading down the stairs. "You gonna go get him?"

"Yeah," Toby sighs. "See if I can get CJ to come with us, too."

He disappears around the corner of the corridor, and Will begins the mass exodus down the stairs.

- - -

_Ruth meets him, wide-eyed and sleep-ruffled, at the door._

"_I thought you'd be coming by."_

_The screen snaps shut behind him; he hands Ruth his jacket._

"_They're asleep upstairs," she tells him. "You want some coffee?"_

"_No."_

"_I could put on a pot, just in case."_

"_No," he repeats. "I'm fine, thank you."_

_She gives him a tight-lipped smile._

"_Andrea's on a plane?"_

_He nods. They'd never been much for conversation, even when he'd been married to her daughter._

_Toby moves slowly up the stairs, bent slightly at the waist, every bit the tired old man he feels like. The wood beneath the threadbare carpet creaks as he walks across it._

_He trudges through the shadows, slips through the door and up to the bed in silence._

_They lay side-by-side, tiny fists raised, fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically. The little bodies curl around each other, an unconscious habit left from the days of cramped space in a warm body._

"_Hey," he whispers, kneeling at their feet, chin on fists on the edge of the bed. Huck shifts a bit, wrapping one chubby arm around his sister, little mouth working into a small yawn._

_Toby reaches out and pulls the blanket higher over their bodies. His hands linger beside their faces; he strokes one cold finger down each of their soft, warm faces. The contrast scares him so much, and all he's thinking of are dream houses and failed attempts._

"_I'm sorry," he whispers, depression gathering low in his gut. "I love you so much."_

_He stands, lowers himself slowly beside them. Toby puts his arm gently over the two, pulls them closer, and waits in silence for it to begin._

- - -

They've been on-and-off with Dave Marimer, AP's man-in-the-thick-of-it in Israel. Katie passes around stale coffee; Chris is off somewhere checking on the late wires.

"_I think they just landed."_

"The FBI team?"

"_Yeah. They're arriving now."_

"Is press still out there?"

"_They pushed the press away pretty quick; there was one guy already at the scene when I got here. He was following Lyman around, trying to get a story on something."_

"You been able to talk to anybody?"

"_They're pretty reluctant,"_ Dave sighs. "_So far I've spoken to an Israeli soldier, and the FBI agent from a few hours ago."_

"I thought they just got there."

"_I think he came straight from London."_

"What's the FBI doing in London?" Mark asks, head falling onto his open palm as he stifles a yawn into his coat sleeve. Danny raises his eyebrows.

"Do we care?"

"No," Mark admits.

"You told the agent it's not for a story, right?"

"_Said it was just fact-checking. He still doesn't want to be named."_

Danny pauses, looks back at the photos in his hands. He flinches a bit, but it's easier when he doesn't think of them as people he used to know.

"Dave, do you still have your FBI guy there?"

"_Yeah."_

"Ask him about the bodies."

"_Danny—"_

"Just do it."

They wait for a few minutes, anxious. Dave comes back, sounded just as tired as before.

"_He says they took the bodies to Tel Aviv; most were identified at the scene. Yossi said someone saw the two congressmen, the admiral, Lyman, his assistant, the driver. I got there in time to see them taking the body bags away, but…"_

"Wait, what about Prebbler?"

All eyes turn to Katie.

"Steve said Ariel Prebbler was in the car."

"So?"

Danny ignores them, still thinking.

"So there's seven bodies, right?" he asks.

"_Six bodies."_

"Six?" Danny repeats.

"_No, wait—"_

There's a rustle of cloth, a crackle of static, and Mark pops his gum with a gun blast. Danny glares.

"_He gave me the finger."_

They laugh, collective.

"_I saw at least two body bags being taken away, Danny,"_ Dave offers. "_One person in an ambulance."_

"Did you get close enough to—?"

"_No. They were already shuffling Ayres away when I got there, but…"_

"Yeah," Danny sighs. "So you've got nothing."

"_Sorry, buddy."_

Danny shakes his head, stares at his fingers.

"Ayres," Brock repeats suddenly. "A-Y-R-E-S, right?"

"_I guess,"_ Marimer sighs, the shrug in his voice. "_Colin Ayres. He's been with the CODEL since they arrived in Gaza. Hung with Lyman and Moss a lot."_

"You know him?" Danny asks, probing Greg's pensive silence.

"Few years back, I worked correspondence at the American Embassy in London, and I met a BBC stringer by the name of Colin Ayres. He was tracking an IRA story from Belfast."

Greg sighs, rolls his shoulders and thinks hard.

"Guy was pretty unethical. Heard tell he got fired, but I'd already taken this post with the _Times_."

"Is that the guy, Dave?" Danny asks, crumpling the egg roll bag.

"_Probably,"_ Dave replies. "_He's Irish, stumpin' some special report on conditions in Gaza. Freelancer, I think. Photojournalist."_

"Think he's AP's unnamed source?" Steve asks quietly.

"You said he was close to Josh and Donna?"

"_With them almost 24/7."_

"And he was the only one at the bombing site?"

"_Yeah. Rest of us already loaded in a van; we were about twenty minutes ahead of the convoy."_

Danny chews his lip a moment, pondering and dark.

"Who identified the bodies?"

"_Well, it wouldn't be that hard to—I mean, they were pretty famous faces around here. Why do you care so much?"_

"Fact-checking," Danny says dryly. Chris re-enters the room, puts a piece of paper in front of him. "Hang on."

"Wire service out of Germany says two people were medevaced in a few hours ago," she tells him quietly.

"From Gaza?"

"He says yeah, but…"

She gives a helpless shrug and sits back down. Danny skims the piece.

"This says one was a woman."

"There are six bodies," Katie says. "The two congressmen, Admiral Fitzwallace—that's three. Josh and Donna make five. The driver makes six?"

"_Ariel Prebbler wasn't in the car,"_ Dave confirms, coming back to their world. "_She was back at the Embassy, didn't go on the border tour."_

"ABC News's foreign correspondent's on, saying the scene was complete chaos; the soldiers couldn't keep control of the crowds, and they barely got the press out after half an hour," Mark tells them, pointing to a muted computer monitor.

"So far we've got a couple of unruly mobs and a guy with two people at Ramstein," Danny sighs. "This is starting to read like a bad Gilbert & Sullivan."

"Weren't those about duty?" Steve asks, confused.

"Yeah," Danny admits with a slight grin. "I just couldn't think of anything else."

"So Ariel Prebbler wasn't in the car, and some guy in Germany's claiming that a woman was medevaced out of Gaza?" Katie asks suddenly, scribbling across her notebook. "But if Prebbler wasn't there and—"

"_Well, now he's saying the unidentified bodies where transported to Tel Aviv."_

"What unidentified bodies?"

"_He says all of them."_

"The FBI guy?" Steve clarifies.

"_Yeah. And now he says there's one left at the site that doesn't have enough…they're having trouble identifying the remains."_

"The hell—?"

They look around at each other, incredulous.

"Does _anyone_ down there actually know what's going on?" Steve asks.

"_I doubt it,"_ Dave chuckles. "_Except Ayres. He always seems to be right in the middle of it. Yossi says he's the one that identified Lyman and Moss, except…"_

"Except what?"

"_Except…"_ Dave sighs again. "_According to the agent I've been speaking to, there was _no way _Ayres identified Moss. Not if she was the only woman in the car, and a woman was medevaced to Germany."_

"Thank you all for coming around to the point I made five minutes ago."

Mark gives Katie a glare.

"But then how did Ayres identify their bodies?"

"You think he might've lied?"

"Could be that he just—"

"Did the FBI guy confirm that two people were medevaced?"

"_Yeah."_

"When?"

"_Just now."_

"Wait a minute."

Danny leans his head on one hand, brain throbbing with too much information.

"None of the bodies were a woman? Are you sure?"

"_No,"_ comes the automatic reply. "_I think he's lying. Or not talking about what I'm talking about."_

"But you could find out? For sure?"

"Danny…"

He silences Katie with a glare. The others glance around, unwilling to say anything. It's too personal.

"_I can—"_

"Will you check it out?"

"_Danny, I really can't—"_

"Will you please check it out?"

"_Yeah,"_ he sighs at last. "_Would you be happy with a 'no comment'?"_

"Absolutely not."

He hangs up with one definitive stab of his finger.

"Danny…"

"Don't say it."

He stands, gathers up some notes and empty Chinese cartons.

"They're dead, Danny," Katie says gently. "I know you were close with the staff, but—"

"I'm just having him check the bodies," he replies. They watch him; he smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way. "That's it. I just wanna be sure."

"Well, I'm going home," Mark announces with a yawn, dragging his coat from a chair.

"I'm gonna go see my kids," Katie nods, grabbing her purse. "See you guys tomorrow?"

"She hasn't called full lid."

Steve gives a half-smile, claps Danny on one broad shoulder.

"G'night, Danny."

"'Night."

He watches them leave in twos and threes, a rag-tag marching line into the crisp spring air. Then he turns back to the phone and goes to work.

- - -

_The temple doors are unlocked and open; he slips quietly onto a bench near the front._

"_Good evening, Toby."_

"_Rabbi Glassman."_

_He folds his hands and perches beside Toby._

"_You left the doors open."_

"_I had a feeling you'd be dropping by," the rabbi says with a gentle smile. "How are you this evening, Toby?"_

"_If you'll forgive the vulgarity…" Toby sighs. "Incredibly shitty."_

_Glassman chuckles, raspy and thick._

"_It's to be expected. You lost someone very dear to you this morning."_

_Toby looks at his hands, then glances at the thick, closed Torah far away._

"_Why does it always feel like this?"_

"_Toby…"_

"_I mean, will there ever come a day where I—where I can wake up and not have to worry if…not have to care so much about people?"_

"_Toby," the rabbi says, "there wasn't anything you could've done."_

"_I know," Toby replies. "I think that's the worst part."_

_They face forward together._

"_He was the least Jewish Jew I ever met," Toby says quietly._

"_Would you like me to say Kaddish for him tomorrow?"_

_Toby looks over at the rabbi, gives him a small half-grimace._

"_I'd appreciate that, thank you."_

_Rabbi Glassman stands, goes back down the aisle, and Toby watches him go._

"_You can stay as long as you like."_

_A few minutes later, he's gone again._

- - -

"What're the words?"

"What?"

Leo looks up, eyes focusing over the brim of his glasses. Jed lowers the printouts.

"What was it that Andi kept telling Toby?"

"In the e-mails?"

"Yeah," Jed nods.

"Oh."

Leo lets out a short, bittersweet laugh.

"This morning, he told me that every single e-mail always begins with the words, _Go see your children_."

Their laughter grows and spills out, filling the darkened room, bouncing off the dull walls and hollow papers in their hands. It's infectious and warm and so very, very inviting that they can almost forget the darkness lingering on the edge of their minds.

"Leo."

Margaret's at the door, face pale and eyes lined with dark circles.

The laughter ends, abrupt and stale. They seem to realize, then, what they'd been doing.

"Yeah, Margaret."

She holds her arms wrapped around her middle, like she's holding something deep inside that needs to break free.

He's never seen her so very fragile before.

"Are you okay?" he asks, gentle and too kind.

"Yeah," she nods, voice barely above a whisper. "E-everyone's…everyone is heading down to the Mess."

"What for?" Jed says.

"Just to…they're just going down there for a drink, to talk about…"

She waves a hand in the air beside her body, a vague gesture that will soon grow to a desperate commonality.

"Is Debbie going?"

"Yeah…yes, sir," she amends slowly. "Everyone's going down there: Toby, CJ, Sam, Will—"

"Sam's here?"

Jed blinks, surprised and slightly pleased.

"Yes, sir. He arrived a few hours ago."

"He's here? In the White House?"

"Yes, sir. Would you like me to get him?"

He looks back down at the e-mails Leo'd printed off, the papers they're passing back and forth, remembering, regretting.

"No, that's alright."

There must be thousands of them everywhere in the room.

"Do you need me for anything?" Margaret asks.

"No," Leo replies. "You can go ahead down there."

She nods and makes her way out.

"We'll probably come down in a bit!" Jed calls after, but she makes no sign that she's heard.

- - -

_His eyes saw only blood in the glare of television lights; he heard only explosions, felt only the trembling of the earth as a car comes crashing down._

_He gave the speech in tight, brusque tones._

_Jed paces the Oval, mind on things long ago and far away. He doesn't want to think about the photos on Leo's desk._

_He knows he should've left the television off, should never have given a speech, should never have let them leave the country._

_He almost doesn't hear Abbey when she enters._

- - -

She walks through the doors, Sam's hand tightening in her own.

"First step is the worst," she whispers, shaking.

"Yeah," Sam says, because it's the only thing he can remember.

They come in near CJ's office; the lights are dim and half-off. The bullpen is empty.

Sam and Sylvia teeter at the edge of the long hall; it's a precipice they'll never come back from.

"I think I'd like to do this alone," she says, turning to look at Sam.

"If you're sure."

"I am," she smiles, timorous, and lets go of his hand. "Thank you, Sam."

"You're welcome," he replies, turning away.

She takes each step slowly, pauses, almost unconsciously, at the places she thinks they shared the most. The coffee pot, the little gray filing cabinet in the middle of the walkway, the bank of inboxes, Donna's little cubicle. She stops at the door of the office.

She knows she'll take this next step because it's there. It's what's next, and she can't stop the world from going on. She can't stop herself from existing, and so she'll step forward because she _has_ to, because there's nothing else, because it's all there is.

Because she has nowhere left to go.

In the stilling silence of deepening night, Sylvia Lyman lays her wearied head down as she sits at her baby boy's cluttered desk and thinks of happy, beautiful times before guns and bombs and kitchen fire.

- - -

_In the glaring illumination of consciousness, he slips through time and reality on a thin, thready wire. The voices are too deep to be saying anything, the touch too fleeting to be there, the lights too bright to look at._

_He squints against a harsh sun, gasping for breath._

"_Shouldn't be at this…"_

_His head turns to the side; he feels hands trying to force him back. Blurred gold is all that's there, and he flails one arm out._

"_I shouldn't be at…"_

_Quietly, he slips back down._

- - -

A single lamp is lit in the dark and empty press room. Danny Concannon hunches over his laptop in the dimness, digging the cell phone deeper into his ear, desperate not to lose this connection. His heart hammers in his throat; his palms sweat and slip on the edge of the table.

"Say that again, Dave."

There's static, crackles and pops that nearly drown out the words of someone long ago and far away. Nauseous hope fills Danny as he listens, a sickening feeling he won't hold onto too tightly.

"Say it _again_."


	8. Chapter 7: In the Shadow of Two Murders

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** So I'm taking a little hiatus after this chapter. I want to get more chapters blocked out, so this story probably won't be updated for awhile. I will never, _never_ give up on it, and to placate you all, I'll probably be releasing a few one-shots in the next few weeks. Expect new chapters definitely by the beginning of the new year. Also, how awesome was the Josh-Toby scenes of tonight's ep?

**Chapter Seven: In the Shadow of Two Murders, Part 2**

"It must've been barely twenty degrees outside—"

"Four o'clock in the morning—"

**11:37 PM**

"Four in the…"

The end of Toby's sentence dissolved in raspy laughter.

**After the Address**

"It was _four_ in the goddamn morning, and Josh had this—this damn…"

CJ, smiling, slips another empty beer bottle off the table.

"Had to've been the thirtieth time we'd said no, but he just stood there, outside the—"

"—the Senator Wellstone's house—"

"—middle of the goddamn night, freezing cold New Hampshire winter, and Josh is standing outside his damn _house_, singing the national anthem at full blast—"

"Leo could've killed us!" Sam adds, grinning wide. "I remember we walked into the campaign headquarters the next day—"

"We thought the governor was going to _murder_ Josh—"

"Manchester PD, every goddamn officer, showing up at the hotel the next day—"

"You would've thought he'd set the federal courthouse on fire, the way they were…"

CJ trails off, still smiling, but it's fading now, bit by bit.

"The way they were looking at him," she finishes. Toby looks down at his bottle, mirth fading. There's a general murmur of amusement; they seem to know it's too far gone to laugh now.

They'd arrived in twos and threes, stragglers and strangers that came cautiously down the stairs, enter the doors with a timid energy, taking seats far from the center. They are drawn by the laughter, by the tears, by the pain, and the despondent need not to be alone.

"We were crazy on that campaign," Sam sighs, tossing a sugar packet idly in the air.

"That's 'cause we had nothing to lose."

Sam casts a glance at Toby; their gazes lock for a long moment.

They come to mourn; they come to regret. They arrived to the noise of celebration, the joy of memories fondly past. It's too loud to hear the sound of so many hearts breaking.

"Yeah," he agrees softly. "We really didn't."

- - -

_It's screams and sirens and chaos, and Toby finds himself staggering through the crowd._

_CJ, Sam, Leo, Zoey, the president…_

_He ticks them all off in his head, mind reeling and body shaking faintly. Adrenaline bleeds through his veins, splinters along his arms and legs and fingers._

"_Josh!"_

_He looks frantically, eyes roaming the fallen bodies, the blaring masses of people on the pavement._

"_Josh!"_

_He's thinking erratically, retracing their steps, worried now._

"_Josh!"_

_And then there's someone there, coming towards him, and he feels a tiny tinge of relief._

"_Hey, Charlie."_

"_Are you okay?"_

_They touch arms, the briefest hint to make sure it's all real._

"_Yeah. Have you seen Josh?"_

"_He got in the car with Leo."_

"_No, he didn't."_

_Toby feels something gathering in his stomach, a thing thick and green and writhing._

"_Shanahan got in with Leo, he—Josh didn't get in the car."_

_Charlie can only shrug, too confused. It all happened so fast and a woman shouts, and Charlie, ever the helper, answers._

_Alone again, Toby whirls around, nauseous and terrified. He can't be this far back; it's behind the gate, and Josh was just…_

_He sees a ruffle of hair behind a concrete flower box, the sleeve and leg of a familiar suit._

"_Josh!" he says, an inappropriate exhalation of relief. "Didn't you hear me shouting for you?"_

_He runs up the steps, smiling, sickly happy, thanking God it's over now and they can all—_

"_We didn't know where the hell you…"_

_And then he sees him, finally meets Josh's eyes. Wide, frightened white rims brown, and Josh is gasping for breath, clutching his chest, blood rolling down and staining his shirt._

_Toby's arms fall, limp and helpless, as he tries so hard to understand._

"_I need a…"_

_His lungs constrict, a sympathy pang, and he tries again._

"_I need a doctor! I need help!"_

_Gasping, tears rolling down his face, shaking hands clamped over his chest. Toby barely moves in time to catch him before Josh's head hits the ground._

- - -

"I had this little bucket of staff badges that no one was supposed to touch, so I could keep track of the staff."

"Josh kept stealing them," CJ grins, adding on for a suddenly silent Margaret. "He'd leave them in filing cabinets and the handles of the bathroom stalls—"

"I think he stuck a couple in the trees at the farm—"

The laughter is more polite than raucous. The sad drunks are rolling out now.

"Anyway, the day he hired Donna, he gave his badge to her, and he had to go get another one. Except—"

"I'd hidden the bucket so Josh couldn't find it. He spent all day trying to find a new staff badge, and he ended up—he ended up missing _all_ of the press events that day, and he almost missed the bus to Charleston the next day!"

They laugh a bit louder this time. The smiles linger on tired faces, a soft glow of warmth illuminating a dark room.

Toby looks around at the faces, blank and empty as each of them are, at the multitudes of souls gathered in one gloomy corner of the globe. It lights a bittersweet spark when he remembers that globes don't have corners.

"You remember the inauguration?"

Will's looking right at him, a small smile, because they're the only ones now with the memory (except for Charlie and Danny, but, Toby reflects, they're not here so they can't count for much).

"Yeah," he says, giving a conciliatory grin. That starts a new story, a new memory, something old that they'll have only to tell and retell until time etches off the truth and smoothes over the rough edges.

Carol slips out and slips back in five minutes later. She brings CJ a Post-It, and Toby has to stifle a flinch.

CJ excuses herself in the middle of Will's story, stands and leaves. Toby watches as she walks away, flashing through the windows and half-opened doors. He turns back to the story, snowballs and blue dresses and taxis in the cold.

They're gathered mostly in a ragged mob around the middle, he and Sam and Will and CJ and Carol and Bonnie and Margaret and Ginger forming the core of a cold depression. But Carol and CJ are gone now, so it's just them.

There's two empty seats near Sam, like they're still waiting for someone else to join.

Will's story ends in that same self-effacing polite laughter, and the room falls silent again. Each time, Toby's certain the silence will last forever, but it's always broken by a cough or a tear or a misplaced laugh.

Sam's looking down at his bottle, and he can't let this happen, can't let there be air in the conversation, can't let them think about it too long.

"We should say something," Margaret whispers. Heads turn, wheel around to find her in the crowd.

"What?" Will asks.

"Somebody should say something," Ginger nods. "For them. Someone should say something."

The eyes turn then, one by one, slide and focus across the room. Toby leans back, mouth closed and face dark.

"Toby?"

And they're looking and judging and waiting, and there are times when he's so tired of being the big brother around here.

"Yeah," he says and stands.

Toby raises his glass in the silent room.

"To Josh and Donna," he says. "To our friends, our brother and our sister, in heart if not in blood. To lives spent fighting for what they believed in, even to the point of—"

Something catches his voice in that moment, tears in a cynic's eyes. Sam raises his glass as well, finding his moment as he stands before the crowd in the mess.

"To Josh and Donna," he says, "the two stupidest smart people I ever knew."

Glasses clink and ping, each sip a somber moment in time. There is nothing after this, no more words, no more toasts.

There's really nothing left to say.

- - -

_Her hands are red._

_Scarlet and soaked, they glisten beneath the fluorescents. She fights the bile building in the back of her throat, wheels around in the packed hall, head spinning._

_Her fingers drip malevolent little drops onto the cold, impersonal tiles._

"_CJ," Toby says. "Your head's bleeding."_

_He touches that little spot on her scalp, fingertips coming away pink._

"_Oh…I…"_

_She swallows, fighting it._

"_I hit my head…"_

_CJ stumbles away, finds herself falling against a wall, and Leo's there, so pale and scared and confused._

"_What the hell happened?" he asks, and it's the trembling in his voice that really scares her._

"_We didn't know," Toby repeats, dazed. "We didn't know he was behind us."_

_She rubs at her hands, scrapes at her palms and tries to get it off. Abbey comes running then, ready but unable to save them all._

"_Leo?" she asks, gasping, face ashen and eyes wide. "What happened?"_

"_Josh," CJ chokes out. "Josh was hit."_

_And she doesn't remember what happens after, doesn't remember reeling away, Abbey's arm on her elbow, doesn't remember crying and gasping and running into frantic people with places to go and people to save. She doesn't remember standing at a sink with Abbey, watching his blood wash down the drain._

- - -

He rises from the couch when he sees her coming, and, sighing, CJ moves through the door.

"The lid's on, Danny. I sent a deputy in."

"Yeah. No one was there."

"Danny…"

He closes the door behind her, waits until she's rounded the desk.

"CJ, you gotta hear this."

"I gathered that much from the note."

She flips the Post-It at him, flops into her chair.

"CJ—"

"What do you want from me, Danny? This isn't a Sharif thing, alright? I announced on—"

"CJ," he warns.

"No, Danny!" she snaps, and it's the hurt that's cracking her voice like that. "I found out on _national television_ that my best friends had _died_! This isn't—"

"You think it was _easy_ for me to sit there and watch that happen? You think I didn't sit there in that room hating the world—hating my_self_—for doing that to you? Do you really think—?"

Danny falls silent, a tempest of anger and fear and helplessness blowing itself out. CJ looks down at her hands, and she's hit by a memory so hard and swift that it tightens her chest and forces tears she'd thought were dry.

She wants to go back to being locked in this room with fishing creels and turquoise silk and stale Goldfish crackers. She wants to be leafing through impossible press binders, laughing and yelling and telling the truth. She wants to go back and not talk and pretend and let Leo give the goddamn speech.

She wants to take it all back.

She turns her head to the wall, hoping the tears can't be heard in her voice.

"Danny, really, the lid's on, you should—"

She's stopped so abruptly by the soft feel of Danny's hands on hers.

"CJ, _listen_ to me."

Her mouth works soundlessly for several moments, opening, stretching, and all she can do is stare and see those soft, gentle eyes she's always known.

"Okay," she hears herself reply. "I'm listening."

- - -

"_I'm sorry."_

"_That's alright."_

"_I'm sorry, I just—"_

_But the woman's moving away, going to answer that phone and isn't there something he should be doing? A speech to write, a Toby to be yelled at by, a hooker to sleep with, or a wedding to attend?_

_He gestures, invisible and ineffective, in the air, turns slowly around, looking for someone who needs him._

_A hospital administrator steps off the elevator, heading for the private waiting room they'd set aside for themselves. Sam melts into the rushing crowds of people, slips in through the back of the room._

_He doesn't want to eavesdrop._

_Abbey comes in a few moments later, tells them about the president in warm, happy tones. Then, a pause, and her voice changes in the subtlest of ways._

_Sam sinks onto a chair, wondering why he feels like he's forgotten something. _

- - -

"It's getting late."

Ginger checks her watch, stands and stretches. Bonnie gives a sidelong glance and joins.

"Yeah," Toby says.

"What time is it?"

"Past midnight," Will says, plopping another round of beers on the table. "You leaving?"

"Yeah," Bonnie grimaces. "We still have to come to work tomorrow."

Ginger puts a hand on Toby's shoulder; he reaches up and squeezes it in his.

"See you tomorrow morning."

"Good night, guys."

They leave, waving, apologetic. Only Will waves back, the half-hearted folding of one hand. The place has emptied slowly over the last hour, the people trickling out through the hall, heading back to empty homes.

The door swings shut behind Bonnie and Ginger.

- - -

_He finds himself in his office, cold and tired and suffocating. He rounds the edge of the room, slamming the doors open. He ends up staring at Margaret, trembling, breathing hard._

"_The First Lady called," she says, handing him a pink slip. "The president's out of surgery."_

_He glances over the message, taking only what's necessary before discarding it and moving on._

"_Anything on Josh?"_

_She gives him a soft, sweet, saddened smile._

"_No," she tells him. "Not yet."_

_Leo nods only once, and she begins to move away._

"_Thanks," he says. "And thanks for staying around."_

"_I leave when you leave."_

_He tries to smile and can't, so he squeezes her fingers in what he hopes is a reassuring way._

_When she leaves, Leo finds himself staring at the phone. There's one call to make, but he doesn't know for the life of him what to say._

- - -

The mess is empty once more; Toby sets a new beer in front of Will.

"Here's a thing."

Sam's arm arches back. The sugar packet lands square in the bin.

"What?" Will asks, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses.

"We'll have to plan a funeral."

Will twists the cap off his beer. An empty bottle spins lazily, refracting the light into amber pinpricks that flash across the walls. Toby rubs his face, exhausted, and Sam presses onward.

"We should bury them together."

"We can't," Toby says, the sound muffled through his hands.

"Why not?"

"Josh should be buried in a Jewish cemetery," Toby replies. "Donna wasn't Jewish. She can't be buried with him."

"I think they'd make an exception, Toby," Sam says, tone mild. Will looks between them.

"Hebrew law is strict, Sam; they're not just gonna—"

"I know it's _strict_, Toby, but I would think—"

"She wasn't Jewish! She can't be buried with him."

"Why should that matter? After all they—"

Sam sputters, futile.

"They should at least be _together_ in—isn't that what—?"

"Oh, shut up the both of you."

Batman and Robin cease their bickering; Toby's looking at Will's disgusted face, frozen, shocked.

"What the hell does it matter?" Will continues, tone harsh and biting, rolling the beer bottle back and forth between his hands. "They're _dead_, Toby. Josh wouldn't want to be away from Donna. He wouldn't want to be away from the _White House_. What've we been talking about this whole time? _This_ was their life. The White House, the president—"

He gestures to the walls, the empty chairs.

"_This_ is what they cared about, what they gave their _lives_ for."

"Stop saying that."

Toby snaps suddenly, but it's calm and slow and subtle.

"Stop acting like they made a conscious choice to—"

He runs a wild hand over his head, angry and gesticulating.

"They didn't give up their lives for _anything_! All they did was get into a goddamn _car_, and they were _murdered_!"

"Yes, they were."

"Yes they were, Sam, and you know what?"

"They're dead."

The sudden silence crackles like thunder between them. Toby stares at Sam, mouth hanging open, used up and useless.

"Will's right, Toby. They're dead," Sam repeats, quiet, cold creeping in. "The president's going to meet their bodies at Dover. They're dead now."

Will catches the bottle before it crashes to the ground, sets it on its side and watches as it spins away. Toby sighs, resting his chin against his fist.

"I want to say I can't accept it."

Will stares at his hands; Sam lobs another sugar packet onto the table.

"I want to say…that I don't want to accept it."

And _this_, he knows, is why Sam left, and it kills Toby to hear it in his voice, see the premature age creased in the corners of his eyes.

"How else could this have ended?"

They glance at each other, then look quickly away.

"Anyway," Sam says softly, "we'll have to plan a funeral."

- - -

_Andrea's standing in the hall outside her office, petrified and waiting for him. The place is relatively packed for this time of night; he loses sight of her once or twice as he walks, head down._

"_I'm alright," he tells her when he reaches the door. "I wasn't hurt at all."_

_She grabs fistfuls of his shirt, pulls him close and breathes deep. Toby acquiesces, wrapping his arms around her sobbing, shaking body. Her face rests on the crook of his neck, and he can feel his ring grinding against a knuckle._

"_You know, Toby," she whispers, "it's times like this I almost forget why we're not married."_

_He holds her tighter, watching her tears soak into his shirt._

"_Yeah," he replies, numbed. "Me, too."_

- - -

"Danny…"

"I know. But it's there, CJ."

"This guy's reliable?"

"Absolutely."

The paper tapping against his hand provides a drum line, a wild, arrhythmic beat to her jumbled thoughts.

"Danny…"

"You know I wouldn't yank you around on this one. You know it, CJ."

She watches the paper, the flashes of white under a dying amber lamp. Danny watches her watching the paper, heart thumping in desperation.

"Okay," she says at last. "Show me."

- - -

_The doors are flung wide; he sees the glimmer of candlelight as he slips into the back._

"_Toby."_

_Rabbi Glassman gives a soft exclamation and hurries forward, embracing the other man. Toby has a brief moment to reflect that this is the most physical contact he's had in one day since getting divorced._

_The rabbi lets go, leans back just enough to get a good look at Toby's face._

"_We opened the temple as soon as we heard," he explains. "People have been coming in and out all night, praying."_

_Toby follows the rabbi in silence to a bench near the front. They sit together, and Toby just stares at his hands._

"_Toby?" the rabbi prompts, prodding, prosecuting. "Would you like to talk?"_

_Toby's grateful somehow that he didn't ask some stupid thing like if he's alright or okay or if anything's bothering him. The late spring night is suddenly chilly._

"_Toby?"_

"_I didn't see him."_

"_What?"_

_He's earnest and generally curious, and Toby keeps staring at his hands, limp and half-folded in his lap._

"_I didn't see Josh. He was behind us when…when it happened. He was behind."_

_He takes a rapid breath._

"_Soon as the shots stopped, I went looking for everyone. I had to…I had to make sure they were alright. I saw CJ and Sam and Leo and Charlie, and I knew the president and Zoey were already gone, but I couldn't…I couldn't find Josh. I was shouting his name over and over and…"_

_He presses his hands together, watching as his fingertips go white from the pressure._

"_I found him sitting up against a wall, back away from everyone else. I was so mad and so _relieved _at the same time, and I didn't…And he was just sitting there, hands on his…"_

_His fingers shift suddenly, rub violently at the ring on his left hand._

"_He was covered in blood and looking at me so…He was so scared; I knew I had to…I called for help, but the first time I couldn't…I couldn't get the words out."_

_Glassman studies Toby's profile in pensive silence, waiting it out._

"_He slumped over, and I caught his head before it hit the ground. I remember CJ and Sam came running out of nowhere, but all I could think was that I had to stop the blood. I had to stop the blood."_

_He grips one wrist and then lets go. His palms rub back and forth over dry, well-washed skin._

"_I pulled off my jacket, pressed it to the—into the wound. I knew that I was hurting him, but I knew I had to because…I had to stop the blood."_

_Toby clears his throat, shifts in his seat._

"_CJ was holding his hand, begging him to stay awake, keep his eyes open, and Sam was screaming for paramedics. When they got there, they…they pushed us away. They pushed _me _away, threw my jacket to the side, but CJ was still holding his hand, squeezing it almost, like she thought it…like she thought that would help."_

"_Toby."_

"_They threw my jacket away," Toby says, dazed. "Just tossed it…like so much…"_

_He makes a vague gesture before their bodies, hands shaking and rubbing and scratching._

"_Toby?" Glassman presses gently. Toby's unfocused gaze is on the floor now._

"_CJ hit her head," he tells the rabbi. "I only noticed it, at the hospital. There was blood in her hair, and I reached up and…"_

_He breathes heavily, unevenly, and feels his chest tighten to pain._

"_They threw my jacket away."_

_Rabbi Glassman rests his chin on folded-over hands, elbows balanced on the back of the bench before them._

"_There was nothing you could have done," he tells him. "Toby, there was—"_

"_I know," Toby interrupts. "I know, I think, but I just…"_

_His hands still; he holds them up in the light._

"_I've had blood on my hands all day. Blood of people I love."_

_And he knows there's nothing Rabbi Glassman can say to that, so he isn't disappointed with the silence. There's nothing anyone can say to that, and he thinks that's the worse part._

- - -

They leave the mess in a group, weaving and yet still sober, as they grope their way up the stairs and into the hall.

They don't take the main lobby out; Toby returns once to his office to retrieve his cell phone, and together, he, Will, and Sam wander away into the dark.

They don't see the empty Mural Room, don't walk past Mrs. Lyman asleep in Josh's office, don't see Abbey crying in front of a fireplace, don't hear the sound of Zoey's even breath as she sleeps, don't see the look Charlie's giving CJ and Danny as they wait outside the Oval.

- - -

_His fingers graze the glass faintly, and Leo's right at his shoulder. Jed grips the IV pole tightly, frail and strong and destroyed all at the same time._

"_They said it was the pulmonary artery."_

"_Abbey told me."_

_Leo takes a step back, a deep and shaking breath._

"_We didn't know," he says quietly. "We didn't know he was behind us."_

_But all Jed can see are basketball courts and chili suppers and National Park lectures, Joey Lucas suits and secret inflation plans and Al Caldwell all swimming through his head._

"_Look what happened," he whispers._

- - -

They leaf through history, pomp and circumstance.

"Look at the two of them," Jed says, affectionate. He leans over, lets Leo see the blurry picture. "Says they were at the Wailing Wall."

"He said he was gonna go, pray for his dad."

Jed smiles, bittersweet, and sinks back into his cushions.

"Mr. President."

Charlie knocks lightly on the doorframe.

"Charlie…"

Jed blinks, surprised.

"I thought you went down to the mess, with Debbie."

"No, sir. I've been here."

"What is it?" Leo asks, catching the young man's confusion.

"CJ's here. She wants to see you, Mr. President."

"Did she say why?"

"No, sir. Just that it's urgent. She's got Danny with her, sir. They want to see you both."

The old men on the couch exchange one brief, meaningless look before getting up and following Charlie out.

- - -

_He can hear his father calling, singing him a deep lullaby._

"_Josh."_

_His head is swimming through murky seawater; he sees the winter sky light up in flame._

"_Josh, wake up."_

_A hairline of gold appears in his vision, a vague horizon he must steer by. He claws at the cobwebs desperately, because it's like he's drowning somewhere, trapped underwater and trying to break free._

"_It's okay."_

_He hears his father's voice fading._

"_I want you to wake up."_

_Gently, he opens his eyes._

_It's brightness at first, a sharp contrast, not like the pinpricks he'd seen before. His eyes swivel slowly one way, then the other. Lips move, but no sound issues forth._

"_I couldn't hear you, Josh."_

_The president leans in from nowhere, ear hovering above his mouth. Josh tries again, feels the tiniest exhale pass his lips._

"_What did he say?"_

_Oh. That's why he heard his dad._

"_He said…'What's next?'" _

- - -

"CJ."

It is merely a statement, but his gaze is resolutely questioning. Nothing, it seems, can shock him anymore.

"Mr. President, Danny has something I think you need to hear."

"What is it?"

"Mr. President," Danny sighs, "I want you to know, first and foremost, that I shared in the grief of the entire White House when I heard about the loss of Josh Lyman and Donna Moss. They were friends of mine, and I…"

He takes a deep breath, abandoning the thought.

"After CJ told us, I called a friend I knew was over there on press detail. I didn't…I didn't want to believe it. So I called this guy, this David Marimer with AP, and I asked him about the bodies."

"Charlie," CJ says suddenly. The boy appears at the door. "Put that guy through now."

Danny goes around the desk. Bartlet steps back, shooting his press secretary bemused looks.

"Sir, if I may…"

The reporter picks up line one on speaker.

"Dave?"

There's heavy, crackling static over the line, punches of distortion like sharp gun blasts.

"_Danny?"_

"Yeah, Dave. I need you to repeat now what you told me an hour ago."

The white noise almost masks his suspicion.

"_Repeat? For who?"_

"For me," Bartlet interrupts. "Whatever it is you just told Danny Concannon about the CODEL bombing in Israel you will repeat _right now_ for me, Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States."

There is silence then. Real silence, and Danny worries that they've lost the connection.

"Dave?"

He sighs.

"_Yeah. I'm still here. I'm sorry, Mr. President. I thought Danny was just…"_

"The CODEL, Dave."

The crackle lessens for barely a moment as Jed and Leo bend over the speaker. Charlie stands in the doorway, straining to hear when he knows he shouldn't.

"_Mr. President, you were lied to."_

"What?"

"_You were _lied to_, sir. By the Israelis, by AP, by everyone. There weren't five bodies."_

"What did you say?" Leo says sharply.

"We had that confirmed by Israel's prime minister, Mr. Marimer," Bartlet adds.

"_Then he was lied to as well."_

"By whom?"

The line clears mercifully further.

"_By a freelance photojournalist named Colin Ayres."_

"What exactly did he lie about?"

A great burst of static startles the group.

"David?"

Jed looks sharply up at Danny.

"Is he still there? What the hell is he—?"

"_Mr. President!"_

The line goes quiet again, static filtering out.

"_There weren't five bodies, sir!"_

CJ and Danny; Leo and Jed; two gazes, two locks, two moments of pain and emotion trapped in time.

"What?"

"_There weren't five bodies, sir. There were only three."_

Snap, crackle.

"_Two of your people survived."_

Pop.


	9. Chapter 8: Enemies Foreign and Domestic

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** I got nothing.

**Chapter Eight: Enemies Foreign and Domestic**

"_And thank you for flying with British Airways."_

**9:15 AM**

_The 'fasten seatbelt' lights blink on, and Josh reaches over Donna's limp form, clicking the buckle snugly into place._

**Day One**

_Her cheek shifts against his arm. Josh watches her sleep, silent._

_On Donna's other side, Andi looks angry and exhausted, arguing with the flight attendant._

"_Ma'am, I need you to turn off your laptop."_

"_I'm finishing an e-mail."_

"_It interferes with our navigational systems, ma'am."_

"_You know you guys always sound really stupid saying that, right?"_

"_Ma'am—"_

"_Listen, lady, I'm a U.S. Congresswoman, and if I want to finish my damn e-mail, I'll—"_

"_Andi."_

_He reaches across Donna's sleeping body, pokes at Andi's shoulder. She looks at him, giving a half-glare, and jabs the power button. Josh grins, leaning his head back against the seat._

"_I didn't get my peanuts."_

"_Andi…" he sighs, soft._

"_What?"_

"_We're spending three weeks together, Andi."_

"_And as much as I'm looking forward to this romantic little getaway, Josh—"_

"_Alright, shut up."_

_She grins back at him and clicks her belt into place._

_Donna shifts against his arm again, fingers curling around his elbow. Josh glances out the window, watching as Israel rushes up from below._

- - -

They exit stage right, still shaky and faintly shell-shocked.

"I…"

CJ licks her dry lips and starts again.

"I think this almost goes without saying, but obviously this story's embargoed for a while."

"I didn't do it for a story," he says. Then, with a grin, "I should make that my motto."

It's almost pathetic, the warmth he feels when CJ cracks a smile and begins to chuckle. Forgotten tears, a throwback from harrowing hours previous, spill down her face. He leans forward and wipes them away with the pad of one calloused thumb.

She catches his hand before he can pull away.

"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you so much, Danny."

"We still don't know anything," he points out. CJ smiles halfway, shaking her head.

"Still," she says, perching on the edge of Charlie's desk.

"It was nothing."

She leans forward, lips brushing the skin of one scruffy cheek.

"It was really something, Danny."

- - -

_They breeze in and out of the hotel, swept left and right by embassy workers. A quick tour, lunch with the ambassador, dinner at some famous restaurant, then back to the hotel._

_As always, jet lag's a bitch._

"'_At seven-fifteen you will be escorted to a meeting with prominent members of the Palestinian Authority in Gaza,'" Josh reads aloud, head hanging over the edge of Donna's bed. She pulls a bottle of lotion from her bag, heads to the bathroom to put it away. "'You will be served breakfast and then taken on a tour of nearby Palestinian refugee camps.'"_

_He flips through the pamphlet, bored._

"_Do you think they're serving breakfast _after _the meeting?" he asks. "'Cause if they are, they might as well call it lunch."_

"_You think the meeting'll be that long?"_

"_Possibly."_

_He tosses the papers over his head, aiming for the inverted trashcan. It misses by miles._

"_These people are blowhards, Donna," he says, pulling himself right-side up. "They'll talk and talk and talk and say nothing at all."_

"_Then you should feel right at home."_

_She enters the room again, yanking at the coat beneath his body until he rolls away, acquiescing. He leans his head on one hand, body sideways on her bed._

"_Are you mad at me?"_

"_No."_

_The reply's too short, too sharp, and he can't see her face, so Josh rolls off the bed, stands and walks to the door. Donna's rushing around in her little living room area, putting things away, rearranging._

"_It's just that you seem mad at me."_

"_I'm not."_

"_I just mean that, on the plane—"_

"_I'm not mad at you, Josh."_

_She's standing suddenly right in front of him, fingers clutching a hairdryer. Her expression is closed and unreadable, and Josh only blinks._

"_Okay."_

"_I have to finish unpacking now."_

"_Okay."_

_And he isn't quite sure how he finds himself in the hallway, Donna's door slammed and locked behind him._

- - -

"Dammit, Efraim, if I'm going to find the people behind this I need access to the bomb site, access to evidence, and the cooperation of the Palestinian Authority—three things I can't get if you keep firing missiles into Gaza!"

"_We had received information on the whereabouts of a man responsible for the repeated killing of our citizens. We had the specific location and little time. Would you have done any differently?"_

He slams his fist on the table.

"You couldn't take three seconds to think through the ramifications?"

"_Israeli intelligence is doing all it can, Mr. President._ _Things have been…chaotic, as you know."_

"Well, I'm glad someone from your government could spare the time to talk with me," Jed says, practically snarling. "Now, I've got dead government leaders, and I'm telling you that—"

An aide slips a note before him; he stops, sits back in his chair.

"_Mr. President, I will express again my deepest sympathies in regard to your loss. Especially considering how close you were to—"_

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Prime Minister."

He hangs up with a sharp, perfunctory stab of one finger, and he's certain that somewhere a protocol officer in the State Department's having a heart attack.

"Do you think he's telling the truth, sir?" Hutchinson asks after a moment.

"No," Jed replies, reading the note. "But I'm not inclined to care right now."

"Nancy's just landed?"

Kate's head pops up.

"What?"

"I said, Nancy's just landed?" Leo repeats

"Yes, sir," she tells him. "She'll be arriving soon."

"I want to meet with her in the Oval as soon as she gets here," Jed says, standing. "I want confirmation on this equipment we found in that building in Gaza. And I want someone to call Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany. You've got one hour."

They stand in unison; the president bangs through the doors and disappears.

"Leo…?"

They all look at him, questioning.

"Just do it," he says, standing, leaving them with nothing.

- - -

"_These incursions are designed as provocation, Mr. Fitzwallace."_

"_Admiral."_

"_Excuse me?"_

"_It's _Admiral _Fitzwallace," Josh repeats, petulant. The man stares for a moment, examining Josh as he'd examine a piece of crap on the bottom of his shoe._

_Against the wall, Donna doodles on her briefing memo._

"_Tanks roll in," the man continues, turning back to Fitz. "This naturally excites resistance, which then is used as a pretext for armed assault."_

_Josh taps a pen on his paper, sighing, casting his gaze around the room. The Fatah leaders glare with disapproval._

_Donna scrawls a stick-figure Josh and a stick-figure politician over the cover of her memo._

"_But you'd agree that the Israeli army doesn't set out to target these innocents."_

_The man's sour gaze slithers over Andi._

"_No, I do not agree."_

"_As opposed to Palestinian suicide bombers on buses and in pizza parlors."_

_Josh gives the leaders a tired smirk, leaning back in his seat. Stick-figure Josh on Donna's memo throws sharpened pencils at the evil stick-figure politician._

"'_Same old story, same old song and dance,' eh?"_

_A man slides into the seat beside her, and Donna quickly shuffles her doodle page to the bottom. His smile is dazzle-bright, that false, smoothed-over glow of toothpaste commercials. His voice is light and friendly, the tone a different sort of musical note than the Arabs in the room._

"_Didn't expect to meet many Aerosmith fans in Gaza."_

_He holds out his hand. Donna shakes it slowly, blinking against his blinding grin._

"_Colin Ayres. Photojournalist."_

"_The cameras were a big hint."_

_She turns back to the table, back to the meeting, meaning to end it, but he doesn't take notice._

"_You'll never understand anything about Gaza listening to politicians."_

"_Or with you distracting me."_

_The smile she gives him is armed and dangerous, the baring of teeth before a sharp, angry bite._

"_Fair enough," he says, leaning back in his seat. Donna gives his slouched posture one sidelong glance and straightens in her chair. "Hey, I'll let you listen in peace if you meet me in the bar when this ends."_

_She meets Josh's gaze; he gives an eye roll of boredom._

"_I don't know how long…"_

"_I'll wait."_

_Unbidden, CJ's voice floats up in her mind._

_Why didn't you get a drink with that guy from the _Post-Intelligencer

_Colin stands, flashes her a closed-mouth smile and moves away through a curtain. She follows him with a turn of her head, then looks back at the meeting. Josh is staring but looks quickly away when she meets his gaze._

_Why didn't you get a drink with that guy?_

_Quietly, carefully, Donna stands from her seat and slips out through the door._

- - -

He bounces up and down on his heels, trying to remember that he gave Sam the spare key.

The plane lands in a stream of exhaust and screeching brakes. The tarmac is relatively empty; Toby gives a glance to his watch.

"Sam has the key. Sam has the key," he whispers, over and over. They drive the stairs over to the hatch, and he strains, trying to see. It's too dark to make out more than the shapes of people moving up and down, back and forth.

The major he's been waiting with gives a slight nod of his head, and someone opens a door to the hangar.

"You can go out there now, Mr. Ziegler."

"Thanks."

He loses sight of the baggage handlers coming forward, throwing suitcases onto the tarmac, as he walks slowly through the door and out into the hangar.

A small gaggle of trembling, ashen-faced people is gathered near the powered-down engine of a chartered military jet. They stand in a ragged semi-circle, silent and still in shock.

"Andrea!" he calls, before he can stop himself.

Her fiery head turns, and Toby feels a flood of something warm and unwelcome enter his chest when he finally sees her face.

"Toby."

And then she's running across the pavement, throwing herself into his arms, sobbing onto his shoulder.

"I keep wondering," she whispers, broken.

"Shhh," he replies, pulling her tight.

"I keep wondering why we never…"

"It's okay, Andi. You're home now; it's okay."

Sam has the key. Sam has the key.

"They made us stay behind, answer questions about the—"

"It's okay."

"They were supposed to…I was supposed to be riding with them, and I just—"

She cuts herself off in another sob, and he tightens his arms, buries his face in her hair. His fingers fan out over her shoulders, rubbing, soothing.

"I can see it, Toby," she whispers. "I can see the bomb and the car and the explosion, and I remember screaming—"

He wants to say that it's okay. He wants it to be true this time. He wants to remember that he gave Sam the key.

"You're okay," he hears himself say. "That's all I need."

- - -

_She pushes aside the curtain and spots him on the far side of the room, hunched over a glass of something dark and foamy. Two deep breaths, the whisper of CJ's voice in her mind, and Donna shoulders her bag, starts across the floor._

"_Hi," he says, grinning, standing to greet her._

"_Hi," she replies, smoothing her hair, nervous._

"_What would you like?"_

"_Uh, juice, please."_

_He orders for her in Arabic, and they slide onto stools. He studies her methodically, a fine specimen laid out under glaring lights._

"_Among the many tribulations in Gaza: the inability to get a proper pint."_

_She forces a half-smile, wondering if she can still slip back into the meeting._

"_So, what's your pleasure when you're not being subjugated by fundamentalists?"_

"'_Rusty Nail'," she confides, feeling silly. "Old-fashioned girl."_

"_Alluring," he says, suave._

"_My dad's drink. Still enchanted?"_

"_Less."_

_The drinks arrive; she swills the pulp of what she hopes is oranges around the rim._

"_So is this your usual routine?"_

_He gives her a politely puzzled look._

"_Scout the new arrivals and make for the nearest blonde?"_

_He gives a hum of agreement, a devil-like smirk._

"_Well, not always the blondes."_

_She raises the glass to her lips, ready to finally take that sip, that daring plunge, when the glass is whisked from her fingers._

"_Excuse me!"_

_She looks up, just in time to see Josh chug the last of her juice._

"_Kill me now, Donna," he declares, slamming the glass back down. Colin signals for a refill, looking more than a bit tweaked._

"_Josh," Donna says, subtly pleading, embarrassment flaring._

"_I swear, if I spend one more damn minute in a room with snotty, tight-assed people, being talked down to or treated like the damn paper boy—"_

_Colin watches in interest._

"_That's it. I'm starting my own jihad, Donna. Right here and now, I'm—"_

"Josh_."_

_Josh's head swivels; he rejoins reality._

"_Yeah."_

"_Shouldn't you get back to the meeting?"_

"_Andi asked for recess. She had to pee."_

_CJ's subliminal coaching evaporates in her mind._

_Josh glances around the bar, his gaze settling on Colin._

_Smirking, he asks, "Who's your friend?"_

- - -

"We have someone?"

"Yes, sir."

"A _definite_ someone?" Jed intones. "This isn't like thirty different takes of who shot JR, right? We're _certain_ it's him."

"Yes, sir, we are," Hutchinson tells him.

"His name is Khalil Nasan," Nancy says. "He's one of the founders of a splinter group of the Khanjari Martyrs. He recently fled Gaza City, and the equipment in his apartment bore trace elements of RDX."

"The same stuff used on our Suburbans," Kate adds.

Jed throws his glasses on the table, rubs his eyes.

"Where is he now?"

"The FBI has tracked Nasan to his headquarters in Khan Younis in Southern Gaza."

There's a moment of silence, then—

"Sir, there are a number of military options."

"Any not mentioned on TV in the last two hours?"

Hutchinson shifts, uncomfortable.

"We're focusing on two right now, sir. A commando raid on Khan Younis gives us a chance to bring Nasan in alive. However, his organization is heavily armed, so there's a substantial risk to our soldiers, and the mission could fail. A missile strike from the _USS Carney_ carries a higher likelihood of success and zero risk to U.S. military personnel."

The president nods, absorbing this.

"Civilian risk?"

"If we launch within the next five hours, the risk should be minimal."

"Why the next five hours?"

"Midday," Leo supplies. Kate elaborates for him.

"In the middle of the day, the children will be in school…"

He nods again, mulling it over.

"And it's in an apartment complex?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many people are we talking about?"

"We're still evaluating, sir."

He hates it when they say that; the way they break people down into numbers and figures, like that'll make it any easier when he's trying to wash their blood from his fingers.

"Ballpark it," he glowers. Kate sighs.

"In a daytime strike, we're liable to see fifteen to fifty casualties, depending on how the building collapses and whether fire from the primary target spreads to adjacent buildings."

"Fifteen to _fifty_."

Like a goddamn Labrador, Hutchinson keeps going.

"Sir, if we strike within the next five hours—"

"What're my other options?"

"Sir?"

Leo's looking at him, incredulous, and the president looks to Nancy.

"I'm not risking the lives of fifty innocent people and the stability of our relationships—relationships I think you'll agree we need right now—just to take this one guy out. What are my other options?"

"We could ask the Israelis."

Leo shoots that one down.

"We don't want them fighting our battles.

"We don't want them fighting at all," Jed agrees.

Across the table, Barrow speaks up.

"There is the Palestinian Authority."

"Chairman Farad?"

"He's offered his assistance," Kate confirms. Leo scoffs; Hutchinson rolls his eyes.

"You've got to be kidding."

"He's asked for the opportunity to arrest any suspects identified by the FBI."

Hutchinson shakes his head, irritated.

"Sir, we share our intel with him, he's as likely to tip off the suspect."

Jed looks to Nancy again, seeking the possibility of a level head.

"The chairman's got no love for Nasan's organization," she shrugs.

"And we can provide incentives for his cooperation."

"Guns and bombs to fight the Israelis?"

Kate refrains from glaring at Hutchinson, and he's so goddamn tired of these macho pissing contests.

"International legitimacy," she says, returning her focus to Jed. "An agreement to recognize him again as the sole representative of the Palestinian people."

"You really want to get back on the merry-go-round with this guy?" Leo asks, indignant. Jed pockets his glasses, rises from the table.

"Let's see what he has to say," he says. They watch him go for the second time, confusion only growing.

- - -

"_So who was that guy?"_

"_Why the hell do you just walk into my room? I could've been naked."_

"_Win for me either way," Josh shrugs, tossing himself across her bed. "So who was he?"_

"_His name is Colin Ayres."_

_Donna smears gloss across her lips, painting her mouth a shimmering red._

"_He's a photojournalist."_

"_He was a shmuck."_

"_You don't even know him."_

"_You don't either," Josh retorts, leafing through one of her magazines. "What're you doing?"_

"_I'm meeting him for drinks at the bar downstairs."_

"_You told him what hotel we're staying in?"_

"_Well, I didn't give him an all-access _pass_," she snaps, standing and tossing the gloss tube back into her purse. Josh stares at her, surprised._

"_Sorry."_

_She pauses before the mirror, giving her hair one last fluff._

"_Anyway, I'm going to meet him now."_

_Josh jumps up from the bed, knowing he shouldn't but choosing not to care._

"_Let me come with."_

"_Absolutely not."_

"_C'mon, Donna. Let me come with."_

"_I said no, Josh."_

"_Donna…" he whines, grinning._

"_No!"_

_The violence of the word shoots past her red-rimmed lips, eyes sparking at him. Josh stops, mouth open._

"_Why are you mad at me?"_

"_I'm not mad," she snaps._

"_Then why are you—?"_

"_Come if you want to," she says, opening the door with more force than is really needed. Sighing, Josh watches her disappear down the hall._

"_Screw it," he whispers, closing the door and jogging after her._

- - -

"You have to have something concrete."

"_I'm sorry, CJ, but this is—"_

"You have to give me something, Dave. _Anything_."

CJ drops the pencil onto Danny's papers, scattering the note cards he's made over the hours.

"_It's crazy over here. I've been trying to get to Tel Aviv since six o'clock—"_

"Try harder."

"_I _am_, CJ."_

She sighs, drops into a chair, head in hands.

"I'm sorry. This is just—"

"It's okay, CJ," Danny tells her. "Listen, Dave, where are you right now?"

"_Twenty miles outside Tel Aviv."_

"How?"

"_Hitched a ride on a mule cart."_

"Seriously? An actual—"

"Danny."

"Sorry," he says.

"_Look, I can get to the city in the next two hours. I've got a couple people—"_

"I can get you in contact with a few people at the embassy," CJ offers.

"_I've got my own contacts, CJ. It's fine."_

"Call back as soon as you can, okay?" Danny says. "What time is it there?"

"'_Bout nine in the morning."_

"Be careful."

Dave hangs up with a punchy crackle, and CJ rubs her face into her hands.

"I'm sorry I snapped."

"It's okay."

"No, it's—"

"It's okay, CJ."

He's kneeling in front of her, taking her hands. She gives him a cheerless smile as his fingers rub slowly over the soft skin of her wrists.

"You wanna hear something funny?" she asks.

"What?"

She chuckles lightly.

"A few weeks before you came back, I told Donna that the next time I saw you, I'd stop and kiss you right in front of everyone."

She glances at him, shy, and they laugh quietly together.

There's a beat of silence as they both stare at their hands, entwined, and then Danny looks back up at her.

"Why didn't you?"

She's slow in looking up at him, slow in answering.

"I really don't know."

- - -

_The room is smoky and dim; the lamps draped in red silk scarves. They enter separately, and the bar makes them both think of CJ and her office, for different reasons. Josh smiles with the remembered glow of victory; Donna grimaces at the deep-seated memory of an ill-timed lecture._

_Colin stands, waves her over, face folding into a half-grimace when he catches sight of Josh, far back. She accepts the stool he's pulled out for her, drops into it gracefully and orders a Scotch and water._

_They lean toward each other, smiling, laughing, and Josh slides into a booth on the other side of the floor, signals a passing waiter._

_He knows she knows he's watching her, but he buries his head in the martini that arrives, conspicuous._

- - -

Her fingers run delicate, soothing lines down the sides of his body.

"See…" Andrea sighs, sated. "This is why I wonder why we're not married."

Toby gives a husky, choked laugh to the dust-filled darkness. Andi smiles, sliding her legs over his.

"That was fun," he remarks.

"Something we haven't tried for awhile, anyway."

"Yeah. We might get triplets this time."

"Toby."

She gives him a look, and he grins back.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Actually…"

She stretches, catlike, and smiles wider.

"It might be fun."

"You're insane."

"Yeah."

She shifts, stretches again, and gives a yawn.

"What time is it?"

"Late."

"Sam here?"

"Yeah."

There's a pause, the briefest lull in conversation.

"Do you think he heard…well, everything?"

"I have very thin walls," Toby replies. Andi chuckles dryly and buries her head into a pillow.

"I'm never leaving this room again."

"I'm actually okay with that."

She gives a real laugh at that and leans up, kissing him on the lips.

They stare at each other for a while, silent, waiting for the other to say something.

"I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah."

She slides back down against his side, face against his shoulder.

"Andi?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you're okay."

"I know," she whispers. She breathes deep; the path of air tickles across his skin. He watches the rise and fall of her chest, lets the steady rhythm lull him for a while. "I was supposed to get in the car with them."

"Andi."

"I was supposed to be in that car, Toby. I should be—"

"Andi…"

She turns over onto her back, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, soaking into her hair.

"I should be dead right now. I should be—"

He rolls with her, enfolding her, trying to comfort and failing so terribly.

"There wasn't anything you could have—"

"I was supposed to be in the _car_, Toby. I should be dead, too. I should—"

She turns onto her side, turns away, and he's left with nothing but her pale back, fiery hair fanned across his pillow. He kisses her shoulder, once, twice, because it's the only thing he can think of.

"I don't…"

She sobs, voice trembling, arms crossed over her naked chest.

"I don't understand how someone just…goes away like that. How they can just suddenly not _be_ there. How is that possible? How can—?"

"Andi, it was just—"

He cuts himself off this time, stops with a start, a sudden realization.

"God," he says, raspy, rolling over onto his back. "Me, five hours ago."

"What?"

"Nothing."

He sighs, stares up at the plaster cracks on his ceiling. So much for afterglow.

A moment passes, then another, and slowly, timidly, Andi turns over and wraps an arm around his stomach, lays her head on his shoulder again.

And Toby says nothing, only wraps his arms around her and closes his eyes. It's the silence, he figures, that they were always better at anyway.

- - -

_The elevator is stifling._

_Josh casts quick, nervous glances from the corners of his eyes, hoping she won't notice._

"_Stop that."_

_Damn._

"_Stop what?"_

"_Staring at me."_

"_I'm not staring."_

"_Fine. _Leering_."_

"_I don't _leer_."_

_He lets his mouth twist in an ugly way around the word, mirroring Donna's moment-ago expression. She sighs, rolls her eyes, watching the floor counter as it ticks its leisurely way up._

"_Well just…stop doing it."_

"_I'm not doing anything."_

"_Yes, you _are_."_

"_No, I'm _not_."_

"_Dammit, Josh! What are you doing? What the hell is your problem?"_

_His hands shoot up, defensive, as he laughs at her._

"_Hey, I'm not the one getting all PM—"_

"_Are those really the three letters you want to invoke right now?"_

"_I'm just saying."_

_His hands lower; he gives a shrug, leaning against the wall._

"_I think you're mad at me, and I think I deserve to know why."_

_The elevator dings; his fingers wrap around the door as she passes._

"_Well, Josh," she throws back casually, "you're one for two."_

_The doors ding shut, nearly snapping his fingers between._

- - -

They walk up the stairs together, the slow trudge of the old and weary.

"You know the Israelis tried this already."

Jed gives him a mild back-glance.

"Yeah?"

"Two years ago," Leo nods. "They identified the men behind the discotheque bombing."

The president turns, aloof, and starts back up the stairs.

"Gave the intel to the Palestinians," Leo continues, following. "The chairman sat them in a corner, made them write 'I will not kill innocent children' twenty times and sent them home."

"He won't treat us like the Israelis, Leo. We can bring him back to the table."

"Sir, the country wants action. We _need_ it."

Jed turns back again, and they stare each other down.

"I'm not saying it's camembert and wine, Leo," he says, low, dangerous. "But it's what we've got. Tell Hutchinson to find a way to get Nasan _without_ taking out a city block, and I'll launch the damn missile myself."

His voice echoes back through the pounding in Leo's ears.

"I'm gonna go check in with Danny and CJ."

- - -

_They lie awake late that night, alone in their rooms, for entirely different reasons._

_Josh is shifting back and forth beneath a slowly revolving fan, staring at the ceiling and making pictures out of the cracks in the plaster. He's thinking about bad timing and jet lag and the anger in her eyes, the way she laughed and smiled, tossed back that Scotch, glared him out of the bar as he left. He's thinking about CJ and the night before they left, wondering what it was they said._

_Donna's sitting at her window, staring out at the sparkling lights of Israel at night. There's a phone lying in her half-curled hand, its dial tone setting the ambience of insomnia. She taps the end of it against her knee, a thump and calculation, Israeli to eastern._

_It's passing nine at night back home, and she knows no one'll be there to answer._

_She thinks with a painful little pang that she doesn't think of it as home anymore, and this is the thought that follows her down onto the bed._

- - -

Bleary, unthinking, he stumbles into his kitchen and gropes in the general direction of the coffee pot. He hunts around in the cabinet, comes up with two empty cans and a stack of torn filters.

"We made three pots already."

The cans clang on the floor, and Toby turns around, wild-eyed.

"God, Sam, don't _do_ that!"

"Sorry."

He and Will grin at Toby from the breakfast bar, matching blue mugs clutched in their hands.

"Hi."

Toby stares.

"Don't you have a place of your own?"

"Yeah."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Yours is nicer," Will shrugs casually. "And you have coffee."

Sam produces two more mugs, filling them slowly, and pushes them across the counter.

"Stop drinking my coffee."

"We got bored."

"Stop drinking my coffee."

Toby tightens the belt of his bathrobe and shuffles to the fridge for milk.

"How is she?" Sam asks quietly.

"Sam, if you honestly think we have the kind of relationship that constitutes my telling you—"

"I meant emotionally, Toby."

He grabs the mugs, walking to the far side of the kitchen, takes his careful time spooning sugar into them.

"She said she was supposed to be driving with them. But she switched with Korb, at the last minute."

Sam takes a noisy sip, something to fill the time as Toby finds the words.

"I wonder…"

He drops the porcelain lid back onto the jar, scratches the top of his balding head thoughtfully.

"I wonder who they would have called, had she been one of the ones killed."

- - -

_There's a breakfast buffet waiting for them downstairs the next morning, but they don't say a word._

_Andi waves them over with a desperate look; they're joined in a few moments by Fitz. There is a moment of awkward silence, the coughs and pauses and slow chewing of food before both begin a stilted, unfelt conversation._

_They talk too loudly to really cover the silence._

- - -

They bring him target estimates and revised plans at half-past four, and he takes a quick call from Abbey before letting them in.

"_She was sleeping in his office. I brought her up here, put her up in one of the guest beds."_

"Zoey okay?"

"_Yeah."_

"Mr. President?"

Charlie sets another cup of coffee before him. Jed covers the receiver with one hand, giving the boy a grateful nod.

"Leo and Dr. McNally."

"Send them in."

"_Anyway._ _I brought her up here."_

"You should get some sleep, too."

"_Will you?"_

Nancy and Leo are followed by a few uniforms, and Jed sighs, rubbing his temples.

"I doubt it."

They hang up with no good-bye, and Jed slips Charlie a short note before asking him to close the door. He nods once and exits quickly.

"Mr. President, we've got new numbers."

They talk and postulate and blather on, and Jed keeps his eyes on the door.

There's a moment of silence, where they're looking at him, and he snaps back in long enough to call it a night.

"Let's all go home, get some rest," he says. "I'll see you all back early in the morning, alright?"

And they get up and gather their things as he goes back to the desk. Leo and the general exchange good-byes, and Nancy wanders up to the desk.

"Sir, it's a proportional response."

"Killing innocent people is proportional now?" he retorts. Leo joins.

"We lost innocent people, too," he says, and they share a momentary look.

It's broken by Charlie, knocking on the door.

"Sir."

"Yeah."

"Ramstein C.O., line four."

"Thanks."

"Ramstein?" Nancy repeats. "Sir?"

Her look is questioning, confused, and Jed turns back to his desk, lets Leo handle it.

"It's nothing," Leo tells her.

"What's at Ramstein?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Leo—"

"Don't worry about it."

Her mouth closes; Jed picks up and puts one hand over the receiver.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

She's shuffled out by Charlie, casting curious glances over her shoulder as she goes.


	10. Chapter 9: Duck and Cover

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** Ack. Don't ask; don't tell; don't pursue. If it works for the military, it'll work for you.

**Chapter Nine: Duck and Cover**

"Mr. President?"

"Yeah."

**7:13 AM**

"They're here, sir."

"Thanks, Debbie. Send 'em in."

**Memorial Day**

Debbie nods her way out of the room. Toby, haggard and worn, appears at the door with Will, Sam, and CJ in tow.

"Come on in, guys," he says, waving them to front and center. Leo and Kate Harper enter through the side door, pensive and silent.

"You tell them yet?" Leo asks, pausing just to the president's left.

"Just about to."

Jed rises from his chair, tosses his glasses on the desk. Charlie slips through from the outer office and stands against the wall.

"Twenty-three hours ago, our lives changed forever."

Toby looks down.

"An American delegation in Israel was bombed. Two of our close and very dear friends were in that bombing, and five hours later, we received the devastating report of their deaths."

He pauses wearily, sighing.

"Josh and Donna are as dear to me as my own children. I can't imagine working in this place without them. I can't imagine walking through the halls and not hearing their voices, not seeing their smiles and fights and joy. I can't imagine waking up tomorrow and not yelling at Josh for something stupid that he's done or watching Donna scold him for making a fool of himself again. I can't imagine having to live without them."

He moves out from behind his desk, comes to stand solemnly before it.

"At 1:33 this morning, Danny Concannon and Claudia Jean came to me with information that we'd been lied to. A dependable source Danny had from Gaza told us that there were only _three_ fatalities, not five."

"But, sir," Will begins, "the prime minister…"

"He was lied to as well," Jed tells them. "At about 11 PM, our time, the FBI team landed in Gaza and began their investigation."

He thumbs at the phone; the raw hope in Sam's face is a blow to the gut he wasn't expecting.

"Three hours ago, I spoke to the flight commander at the Ramstein Air Force base in Germany. He confirmed that two people had been medevaced from Gaza and sent straight to the Landstuhl medical center. I spoke to the hospital's chief of staff."

"And?" Toby demands. "What did he say?"

The sun casts an amber glow over the desk, and Jed looks down, giving a soft, unexpected smile.

"They're alive. Josh and Donna are alive."

- - -

_There's an eight-fifteen recap with the Fatah leaders, but she manages to slip away by ten. Josh is her interminable shadow._

_Colin's waiting for her beside the door, as promised._

"_Took your sweet time."_

"_It's not that easy to offend the leaders of a large, angry Arab organization and then skip breakfast," Josh replies airily, giving a false grin. Colin grimaces in return and focuses on Donna._

"_You look quite lovely."_

"_Thank you."_

"_Didn't know you were bringing friends," he adds, fiddling with one of his camera straps._

"_I'm not here for any trouble. Josh Lyman," Josh says, offering his hand. Colin shakes it slowly._

"_You're with the CODEL, too?"_

"_He's my boss," Donna says sharply, shifting the bag on her shoulder. "He just—he followed me."_

"_Don't I recognize you from somewhere?"_

"_I'm the Deputy Chief of Staff at the White House," Josh supplies, with the appropriate smug expression. Donna scopes the wide lobby for an escape, desperate. "And you are? I'm sorry we didn't get introduced yesterday."_

"_You were in quite the hurry," Colin grins. "Colin Ayres is the name."_

"_And the game?" Josh asks, feigning politeness._

"_Freelance photojournalism."_

"_So you're unemployed."_

_There's no one to rescue her._

"_Look, Colin, why don't we go out for some coffee? The meetings'll start soon, and I'm sure Josh needs to—"_

"_I don't mind playing hooky."_

_Her eyes widen at him, a silent and pushy indication for him to beat it, but Josh just isn't that receptive in the morning._

"_There's a coffee bar over there," he offers, gesturing to the left._

"_Let's go find ourselves a table."_

_Resigned, Donna trails after them. _

- - -

They exit with the entrance of the early-arriving brass, swept aside by more important matters. Leo ushers them all into his office and shuts the doors.

"Obviously, the first thing is how we're going to announce this to the country."

CJ glances around, waiting for reaction.

"I think the _first_ thing should be to tell their families."

"I'll have Debbie get a call to the Mosses after this briefing."

"I'll tell Mrs. Lyman," Sam says quickly. Toby nods silently, thinking, hand running over his head. Leo says nothing; CJ glances out the window.

They just can't seem to look at each other.

"How did this happen, Leo?"

"Toby, look, we—"

"How did this happen?" Toby repeats, hardening. "Josh and Donna are alive. How did we think they were dead?"

"Toby, there was a lot of confusion at the bombing site," CJ cuts in, tone placating as she rises from the arm of the couch.

"I don't give a damn."

"Toby—"

"I don't _give_ a damn, Leo! Kate Harper said she was told by the Israeli prime minister himself, and I wanna know how in the hell he gets away with lying to us!"

"He was lied to, too, Toby," Leo replies. "They all were."

"Who's 'they'? Who the hell is '_they_'?"

"Listen, Toby, it started with—"

"I don't care where it started, CJ! God, this is—"

He whirls away, hands going up, stalking to the far side of the room. He needs room to think, to breathe, to let it sink in.

"It doesn't matter," he says, whirling back. "We'll deal with that later. We need to fix this, now. As soon as the families are told, I want CJ in the briefing room giving a statement. No questions."

"Sam and I could work out a short thing to—" Will begins.

"That's fine," Toby cuts him off. "Just get it done."

The door opens under his clenched hand with a forceful click. Toby turns back briefly, mouth open, but thinks better of it and slams the door as he goes.

- - -

_They crowd around a cramped table, squashed between a window and a wall-like aquarium._

"_So are you both enjoying Israel so far?" Colin asks, once they're settled._

"_No."_

"_Yes."_

_Josh grins, glances at Donna._

"_You don't like it?" he asks innocently. A growly frown is his only response, and Josh rolls his eyes._

"_Why'd you come here?" Colin asks._

"_You're awfully inquisitive."_

"_Reporter. It's in my blood."_

"_Can we get some coffee, please?" Donna calls out to a passing waiter, angling her body to face only Colin._

"_What are you doing here? If you don't like it so much, I mean."_

"_We're part of the CODEL," Donna explains in a quick exhalation of breath. If she thinks about it hard enough, she can pretend that Josh isn't actually there. "It's a fact-finding mission. We're here to learn all we can about the conditions in Gaza and report back to the president."_

"_Are you now."_

_Too many years in Washington, she bristles at the slightest brush-off._

"_What's wrong with attending conferences?" she asks, contemptuous._

"_You're fact-finding," Colin repeats. "Why is that? There's more to understand in Gaza besides facts."_

"_Is that right?"_

_Josh gives Colin a condescending smirk, the elitist bastard, and a waiter arrives. They order and then lapse into silence._

"_So what were you two meeting for? A morning-after follow-up?"_

_Donna's foot is swift and unforgiving against his shin, and Josh coughs loudly to stifle the pain._

_Colin watches, confused, and replies._

"_Sort of. Miss Moss here invited me to come and see her after the morning's meeting."_

"_Did she really?"_

"_She _did_," Donna says icily. "She's also still present."_

_Colin grins, haughtily triumphant, but the drinks arrive before Josh can say another word._

"_Cheers," Colin says, refocusing on Donna, raising his mug to clink with hers. "To an old-fashioned girl."_

_He gulps his coffee with a wink, and Donna can't help the laughter that bubbles out._

"_What?"_

"_I'm sorry, but that was just…"_

"_Really cheesy?" Josh supplies. "And I'd hate to see you blow that whole dashing, mysterioso, foreign correspondent thing."_

_Donna stifles her own smile into the mug as she tries to remember the sound of CJ's voice._

"_Thanks very much," Colin says with the littlest of glares. They sit and sip in silence for a while, awkward._

"_So show us," Donna says at last._

"_What?"_

"_The real Gaza."_

_Colin gives an uneasy glance at Josh, leans forward, and lowers his voice._

"_See, what I was hoping—"_

_With an accustomed grimace, Donna replies._

"_I know what you were hoping."_

_Colin looks irritated, Josh looks smug, and Donna downs the last of her cappuccino in one burning gulp._

"_When do we start?"_

- - -

She finds herself wandering into the kitchen at a quarter to eight. Abbey's sitting at the table behind a mug of coffee, head held up by one fist, eyes red-rimmed.

"Good morning," Sylvia says, halting awkwardly in the door.

"Morning," Abbey replies. "Did you sleep well?"

"Fine. It was a large bed."

"Would you like some pancakes, Mrs. Lyman?"

She jumps and turns, but it's only Zoey, standing at the stove, spatula held out in a peace offering.

"Pancakes would be…"

Sylvia grimaces, not relishing the idea of food.

"Pancakes would be just lovely, thank you."

Zoey turns back to the counter, pulling out a bowl. Sylvia stays in the doorway, forcing her hands to stay at her sides.

"You can sit down if you like," Abbey offers, gesturing to seat across from hers.

"Is the president still asleep?"

"No. He didn't come back to the Residence last night."

"Oh," Sylvia says and sits across from her. Zoey bustles back and forth between them, keeping herself occupied, and Sylvia thinks she can understand why.

At eight fifteen, after Zoey's finally stopped moving around, the kitchen door bursts open with the entrance of Leo, Sam, the president, and a young man Sylvia vaguely remembers as Charlie.

"Sylvie," Leo says, eyes shining. "We've got some news for you."

"Oh?" she replies, blinking politely, far too exhausted for anymore of this.

- - -

_He returns to the conference quietly, slipping into his seat and listening with less than half an ear. His shin throbs, and he's sitting back at the coffee house table, squashed between an aquarium and the wall. Donna's shooting him imperceptible little glares, and Josh wonders where he went so wrong._

_Andi elbows him accidentally, reaching to adjust her scarf, and he's back in Israel, back on this stupid trip, back to wondering what he's doing here. Back to wondering what he's been doing this whole time._

_He hates how jet lag makes him think._

- - -

"We've got to make a call on Camden Yards."

Will tosses a rubber ball back and forth between his hands; Sam has the sudden urge to hire him out as a juggler.

"Huh?"

Toby, full of eloquence today, looks up from the speculation spinning across CNN.

"It's Memorial Day."

"I have a calendar."

Will gives a dry grin, elaborating.

"The president has to throw out the first pitch."

"Cancel it."

Sam stops a moment, considers.

"No, don't cancel. Sends the wrong message. We'll ask for a moment of silence."

"It's a six-foot toss from the stands."

"Little League," Will agrees, lobbing the ball higher.

"FDR threw from the stands, beaned a reporter in the head—extended the Depression another four years."

Toby's face is an emotionless mask, but it's the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, the little wrinkling of his nose, like he's faced with something ridiculous and unpleasant that just won't go away.

"I'll talk to him."

They turn back to the TV; Toby pops a new piece of gum into his mouth.

"When does CJ go on?"

"After Leo's meeting with your old boss."

"Oh," Will grimaces, "yeah."

- - -

_Donna starts the first e-mail to Leo late that afternoon, curled up on a thick-cushioned couch in a nameless sitting room, waiting for someone to join her._

_She begins at the place that feels the most natural, the place she's been thinking about the least today._

"_Arrived in Gaza, Leo. I unpacked; Josh wandered around my room, reading aloud from the briefing book. Should definitely look back into simplifying government manuals. Also, still no comprehension of the money. Josh claims he knows, but we're probably criminally under- or over-tipping the entire Palestinian service sector. Will either be run out on a rail or given a parade upon leaving."_

"_I'll vote for parade."_

_She smiles at Andi and Fitz, pulling down the screen of her laptop._

"_Meeting wrapped up?"_

"_For now," Fitz says, dropping with an _oomph _into a nearby chintz chair._

"_Where's Josh?"_

"_Irritating the locals," Andi replies with a flippant wave of her hand, flopping into the cushion beside Donna. "Where've you been all day?"_

"_Around," Donna says, a little grin slipping over her face._

"_How was Casanova's mid-morning border tour?"_

_Andi looks properly smug, and, blushing, Donna answers Fitz._

"_Fine. He introduced me to a few of his Palestinian friends, a few refugees."_

_They nod, interested but too exhausted to pursue. Donna opens the laptop again, gives a few half-hearted taps, but then slumps back, giving up._

"_You okay?" Andi asks, raising her head a bit._

"_Yeah, I'm—"_

_Donna gives a snappish shake of her head, a dismissive grimace._

"_I'm just…I'm thinking too much today."_

"_About…?" Andi presses._

_Fitz raises an eyebrow, remaining silent._

"_About…I don't know," Donna sighs. "Forget it; it's nothing. I'm just…a little in-between about things right now."_

_They give half-glances at Fitz, nervous, and Andi leans closer, lowering her voice._

"_Josh things?"_

"_Well…I don't know…"_

"_Your job?"_

"_Sort of."_

"_You know, I could put my fingers in my ears and hum for a while, if you ladies prefer."_

_Donna glances sheepishly at the former admiral; Andi shifts again, giving an eye roll._

"_Sorry, it's just that…well, I wouldn't want—"_

"_It's not my job to gossip to the president," Fitz grins. "Cross my heart."_

"_Thanks."_

_Donna gives him a dazzling smile of gratitude, but remains silent._

"_So tell me," Andi prods. "What's the thinking for?"_

"_I just…I'm wondering why Josh brought me along."_

_Andi's smile, stifled, is still too complaisant._

"_Is that it?"_

"_No, it's just…I feel like I'm…"_

_Donna sighs, defeated._

"_I don't know what I'm thinking."_

_Andi can only smile, patting her knee awkwardly. Donna turns back to the e-mail, mind drained of what she was going to write._

"_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—"_

_Fitz is smiling at her gently, a strange sort of understanding in his face._

"_I took the road less traveled by, and it has made all the difference."_

_He stands, stretching, glancing at his watch._

"_Next meeting starts in twenty minutes. You girls wanna grab some lunch?"_

_Donna raises her head, sees Josh at the far end of the hallway, walking towards her._

"_Sure," she says, standing, sliding the laptop back into her bag. "This can wait awhile."_

- - -

"Leo, I can't stress enough the importance of an immediate and forceful response."

He looks at them with feigned attentiveness, the back of his mind already wondering how Margaret can get him out of this.

"Mr. Speaker, we fully intend to—"

"Really? Because the president's speech—"

"CJ Cregg is going to give a statement, gentlemen. If you could wait to speak to me after—"

Toby enters, closing the door with a quiet click behind him. Unfortunately, he remains silent. The vice president jumps in, cutting Leo off again.

"Gentlemen, we shouldn't get caught up in politics. Whether it's the religious right or the guys funded by the AIPAC lobby on our side of the aisle, Israel is a black-and-white issue."

Toby raises his eyebrows, and Leo glances at him helplessly.

"Exactly," Haffley nods, leaning forward. "Leo, there was very little sympathy for the Palestinians _before_ this attack."

"But a resolution on swift military action," Toby cuts in, tone tinged in ice. "Now _that_ sounds like a winner."

Haffley's oily gaze rakes over Toby with deep contempt. Toby dismisses it subtly as Leo looks on, disinterested already.

"These lunatics are willing to sacrifice themselves—their _children_. The only way to ensure this country's safety is to respond in kind."

"In kind," Toby repeats, dubious.

"I think what the speaker's trying to say is—"

"I got what he's saying, Bob," Leo snaps.

"Do you? We lost two of our people."

"We didn't lose anyone?" Toby asks, voice low and dangerous. Haffley turns full, staring him down.

"Not according to a few stories that've filtered my way."

The air seems sucked from the room; Toby's eyes smolder.

"How do you know about that?"

Russell keeps his gaze locked on Leo's, an unreadable little smile tugging at his lips.

"Your White House isn't sacrosanct, Ziegler."

"Huh."

Toby gives a harsh, jaded chuckle.

"Where will it get us, then?"

"What?"

"Your little resolution, Mr. Speaker. Invading Israel. Killing the Palestinians. Where will it get us?"

"We don't need your president's permission," Haffley continues, a hint of arrogance in his tone. "Congress declares war."

Toby stares him down, the childish jut of his chin, the puffed-up idiocy of it all.

"You can't force the president to fight a war."

Leo remains silent, slumped in his chair, contemplating.

"If Congress declares—"

"You won't do it," Toby laughs.

"Is that right?" Russell interjects.

"Yes," Toby continues. "You're bluffing, and you know it."

Haffley opens his mouth, indignant, but Toby plows on.

"You know it because in two years, when the two of you are running for president, a reporter is going to ask, 'Congressman, Mr. Vice President, do you have an exit strategy for our current war in Israel?' And you won't have a damn thing to say, because two years before you were blinded by the need for revenge!"

"And you aren't?"

Toby's face sours instantly.

"The United States is not in the business of vengeance, Mr. Speaker."

"Is that how you felt yesterday, Toby?"

The grimace he offers them is tight, controlled, the repression of fury.

"You _will not_ force this president into a war he is neither willing nor prepared to fight."

They stare each other down, the crashing and clashing of two storms in a hard-blown sea, and Leo finds he has nothing to say. A moment passes; one cedes to the other, but he finds he can't really tell which, and then everyone's looking back at him "Leo, I've got 200 members of my conference screaming for Chairman Farad's head," Haffley says. "Now, there's an obvious course of action here. And on that, we stand firmly behind the president. Bob's right. Politics aside, Leo, he's got to do this."

Leo refuses to meet Toby's gaze, choosing a nice, neutral spot in a painting on the wall to Russell's left.

"I won't make any guarantees, gentlemen. The president will weigh all options and then decide."

"And how long will that take?"

"As long as it needs to," Toby replies with finality. "Until then, you can tell your conference members to stop calling."

He pauses a moment, then sighs and addresses the Speaker.

"You're right, though."

Haffley glances up.

"What's that?"

"You don't need our permission," Toby says, rising. "But he's your president, too. Leo, can I—?"

"Yeah."

Leo rises, slipping his glasses off.

"Gentlemen, I think this meeting is over."

They exit to the hall, leaving the others—the outsiders—silent behind them.

- - -

_Lunch is fun, quiet and enjoyable, and Donna feels a strange, angry thrill of satisfaction when Josh doesn't join them._

_Andi takes them to a market, and they amuse themselves in trying to find Fitz a new hat, but he refuses amicably, and they settle for cheap Prada-knockoffs for themselves._

_Donna arrives back at the hotel to find two messages waiting for her. The first a call from CJ that she crumples in one swift motion, tosses into the trash bin at her feet, and the other a single jasmine blossom and a hand-scrawled note from Colin inviting her to dinner and a private conversation._

_There is nothing from Josh, but she thinks it doesn't matter. She won't see him for the rest of the night._

_She thinks that maybe he doesn't deserve this, but then she reminds herself that she just doesn't care. She's worked too hard, too long, for too little money and too little respect._

_Colin meets her at the bar again, and they make plans to meet again in the morning. He asks her to bring Josh, and her agreement is appropriately indifferent._

_And yet there's a niggling little voice, a thought that tightens her mouth to a thin line, clouds her eyes, fills the tails of her thoughts with the slightest hint of shame._

_Inside, she thinks it might not have so much been respect that she's really wanted from him all this time._

- - -

"We're getting creamed out there."

"What, exactly, is it that you do here now?"

Will ignores this amicably, falling into stride with Toby.

"They're reading double-entendres into everything he said last night."

They come to a pause beside the briefing room; CJ enters the hall from a hailstorm of queries.

"I take it they're not praising his sensible moderation."

"Not so much," CJ grimaces. "What's happening on the Hill?"

"They're putting the military action resolution to a vote tomorrow morning," Toby replies. They're moving again, though he doesn't really remember telling his legs to walk.

"It's going to pass?"

"I'm hoping it won't be unanimous."

They pause at a junction; CJ shifts back and forth on her feet, frowning.

"Where's Sam?"

"I think he's in the Residence."

"Josh's mom…?"

"I don't know," Toby says, giving a snappish shake of his head. "It was hard enough telling Andi."

They stand together a moment later, but then CJ walks abruptly away, and Will turns down another corridor, and Toby's left alone once more.

Charlie appears at the end of the hall, hands wrapped around a thick bulletproof vest.

"What is that?"

"For the game," Charlie replies.

Toby is swept along in the younger man's wake, brow furrowing.

"Why does he need—?"

"He wants to throw from the mound."

"Oh, God."

Charlie tosses a grin over his shoulder, but it misses, and they keep moving.

"Secret Service says he has to wear it."

"Throw from the mound? Have you seen the president throw a baseball?"

"Yeah," Charlie grimaces. Toby chuckles, incredulous.

"I don't think he can throw 60 feet _without_ a vest."

"Yeah. It's actually longer when you factor in the vertical—"

"Sam said we should—"

"I'm thinking pull out a couple of gloves and throw him in the vest sometime between his call with the chairman and his meeting with the Egyptian ambassador."

"Yeah," Toby says, tight-lipped, coming to a stop. "Perfect."

- - -

_When Colin talks to them, Donna tries to listen, but nothing can really hold her attention._

_She's floating somewhere between then and now, Josh's hand on her back and Colin's fingers gripping her wrist, the orange scarf wrapped over her head and the curling iron she's buried in a cabinet, the red dress she kept and the turquoise one she's thrown away._

_She sees herself balanced between them both, between Josh and something else, between what she's known and what she could be. Between what she wants and what she can't have._

_Donna finds herself thinking too much in the car on their way back to the hotel. Josh's eyes are watching the people that blur past them, one arm leaning on the window, the other curled inwards. There has to be less than two feet between them, but it feels like so much more._

_She thinks about Dr. Freeride—Eric, dammit, his name was _Eric—_thinking of Wisconsin and college, thinking of all the things she'd come so close to having and all the things she's failed to gain._

"_Donna?"_

_Her head snaps around; Josh is holding the door open, bending low, gaze timid._

"_We're here."_

"_Yeah."_

_Dazed, she slides out behind him._

- - -

"Five minutes I can't get these guys to keep their damn hands off each other?"

The door bursts open; Kate and Leo trail along behind him.

"Suicide bomb on a bus—now I can't even get through a damn conversation!"

"The Israeli Special Forces have created a perimeter around the chairman's compound. They've cut off the electricity, the phone service—"

"We noticed," Jed snaps. They take their seats; he slams open a briefing book.

"The Israelis have been eyeing a unilateral solution," Harper nods. "They probably figure that now's a good time to take out the chairman."

"Neutralize?"

"Cut him off," she replies. "Prevent him from possibly orchestrating further bombings until they finish building the security fence."

"Or they've decided to forcibly remove Farad from the territories."

"Well, that will make it more difficult to work with him."

Harper is slipped a piece of paper; she reads it with a sigh.

"Actually, Mr. President—the Palestinian security forces are refusing to proceed into Khan Younis."

"They're not going to arrest Nasan?" Leo asks.

"They can't reach the chairman," Harper confirms. "And without his approval, they won't go in."

Jed sighs, leaning back.

"Mr. Secretary, where are we?"

"We've been working on a third military option, sir," Hutchinson says. "Two FA-18s dropping air-to-surface guided missiles. These are a third of the size of the Tomahawks. The damage would be substantially less."

"How many?" Jed prompts.

"Thirty casualties, maximum."

"That's substantially less than fifty?"

"It's night in Gaza, sir. You're looking at an evening raid."

"And if we wait until morning, when school starts?"

"Fifteen to twenty."

"Sir, U.S. action at this time could be seen as an implicit sanction of the Israeli assault."

Leo's eyes on her are cold and quick.

"Sir, Nasan's not likely to stay put. If we don't act now, we _will_ lose him."

"And if the U.S. engages in the same type of missile strikes the Israelis commonly resort to, we may need to evacuate our embassies throughout the region."

She swallows, eyes trained on the president. Leo watches her quietly.

"We could destabilize moderate regimes in Jordan and Egypt."

"Nasan's contributed to the murder of three senior government officials. We've reduced the collateral damage numbers substantially," he says, tone condescending, clearly meant for her.

"We act now, it's like taking out a Super Bowl spot for every anti-American terrorist network in the Middle East."

"Failure to act," Hutchinson warns, "especially in the Middle East…"

"That's appeasement," Leo finishes with certainty.

"Leo, this isn't 1938," Jed replies, tone mild. "We aren't fighting fascists with _armies_ and _tanks_. It's terror cells. An individual can take out a city with a briefcase of plutonium."

"Sir—"

He lifts his hands, sick of it all.

"Look, I want a full collateral damage assessment report for a daylight assault on my desk within the hour."

He rises, tugging them along like puppets on a string. Leo watches him go, face folded in a disappointed frown. His gaze switches back to Kate, and he crosses the table to her side as she sits back down.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"We don't push agendas here."

"I don't believe I am," she replies, looking up at him, confused.

"He has a process," Leo explains carefully. "He likes to reflect, consider his options, but at the end of the day, when it's time to make the call, he's got to stay focused."

"I'm trying to give him the relevant information to—"

"This isn't the UN," Leo snaps. "He's not the Secretary General. He's the President of the United States, and our job is to make sure that his priorities are _clear_. Today's priority is not world peace."

- - -

_There are more meetings, more talks, more tours, and Donna feels the hours bleeding into one long nightmare, a never-ending afternoon under a blistering sun._

_And somehow, painfully, she finds herself wedged between Josh and Colin in the back of a packed truck._

"_The Palestinians get it, you know. Despite the rhetoric, they know the only way they've got a chance at real peace is with you guys as brokers."_

"_We're not here for a peace summit."_

"_Right," Colin scoffs, eyes focused on Josh. "_Fact-_finding."_

"_We are," Josh says defensively. The truck rumbles over a swell; he's tipped sideways, pressing against Donna for a moment, then back upright, glaring at Colin._

"_Then why're _you _here?"_

"_The president asked me to go."_

"_One of his top policy advisers."_

_The sarcasm is dry, dust-coated, floating along a ray of parched sun. Donna sighs, leaning against the wire mesh behind her, hand gripping her sweaty canteen._

"_Domestic policy," Josh sighs. "He wanted me on this trip as a sign."_

"_A sign of what?"_

_Even his politeness is scathing, and Donna wonders briefly if this is how she and Josh sometimes look to other people._

"_That the administration is interested in a peace agreement."_

"_Then why not broker it now?"_

"_We're gathering facts," Josh snaps, meaning to end it. He turns his head, facing back, and Donna stares at the hollow of his neck, the tiniest edge of a ragged scar peaking over the collar of his shirt. His hand rests above her head, fingers wrapped around a crossbar to steady the gentle back-and-forth swaying of his body._

_She glances at Colin, just in time to see him roll his eyes yet again, but then he catches her gaze and tips her a wink. She provides nothing in reply, turning back to the rust-streaked world stumbling past them._

- - -

"You wouldn't rather wait in your office?"

"I enjoy your company."

Debbie graces him with a withering look.

"Well, I enjoy a good slug of gin at lunch, but I've learned to do without."

Toby returns with a tight smile, baseball turning over and over in his fingers. The president enters from the Oval, giving Toby a displeased look.

"What do you want?" he snaps.

"Nothing."

"He's only been hovering here like a jaybird for the last forty minutes," Debbie supplies.

"Anything from Sam?"

"They'll be landing soon."

Toby glares, and Jed's eyes land on the vest lying across Charlie's desk.

"What's that?"

"It's the vest for the game," Charlie replies carefully.

"What's it doing here now?"

"Sir," Toby begins, "when you wear the vest, your throwing motion—"

"I've worn the damn thing before," Jed snaps, turning back for the office.

"Mr. President, you'll be on national TV," Toby replies, voice rising slightly. "Millions of Americans will be watching. Given their current state of mind, I'd rather not have you walk into a stadium of forty thousand people and hang a curveball over the backstop."

"He's right, sir," Charlie replies. "Everyone agrees."

"Everyone?"

"Leo, Will, your wife…" Charlie trails off a bit, failing to hide his grin. "The Notre Dame Athletic Department."

Jed's frowns, mouth folding over in deep displeasure. He glares at the vest, slaps his papers down on top of the TV.

"You've got fifteen minutes," he says. "Give me the vest."

- - -

_Josh finds himself pacing his room, late at night, wondering if he should just give in and call it early morning._

_He's trying not to think of Donna—trying to think of anything _but _Donna—and finds himself staring at his open laptop. An unfinished letter to Leo lies open on the screen, and Josh tosses a ball back and forth, pensive._

_He's thinking mostly about his answer to Colin, earlier, his answer to everyone when they ask._

"_The president asked me to go as a sign that the government is committed to peace."_

_This is ridiculous; he knows this quite clearly. Sending Fitz was more than enough of a sign—no one ever wants more than peace in the Middle East, and he and Fitz had joked about playing camp counselor, Donna observing airily over his shoulder that he didn't know a damn thing about lanyards._

_He's thinking about the people that had been standing in his office, the human end of a giant abstraction. He thinks—knows—he would've waited forever by the sea, blind, obstinate, willing to believe in goodness and principles. He's thinking of the policy guys and how they hate the politics guys, thinking of Ryan Pierce and Amy Gardner, thinking of his receding hairline and the message from Sam that's been on his machine since October._

_He's trying to remember the reasons why he's here, his reasons for fighting and believing, and he's standing at the windows, staring out through the warped glass of his darkened hotel room. The lights of Gaza spread before him in a softly glowing labyrinth, open, inviting. He counts the lights, counts the stars, counts his reasons why, and comes up empty._

- - -

"Leo, we've got a call about some activity in Germany."

"Germany?"

She snips at his heels as they move, ducking and weaving.

"We set guards outside Josh and Donna's rooms at Landstuhl, just to—"

"Yeah."

"Anyway, people have been sending flowers and things, and the agents check them before they let them through."

"And?"

"They intercepted something that got the attention of the FBI."

He shuffles her quickly into an empty room, snapping the door shut.

"Another bomb?"

"No," she says, sharp. "It was a basket of flowers. Pomegranates."

"You pulled me out of my office for—not that I really _wanted_ to—you pulled me out of a meeting with the Democratic Congressional Leadership for _fruit_?"

Kate waves off his glare, plunging onward.

"Pomegranates are the national fruit of Palestine. There was a note with Arabic writing on it."

Leo takes a breath.

"What did it say?"

"On the back it said 'Wishes for a speedy recovery. Father of the Baker, Father of the Light, Son of the Sword.' The last three are English translations of _Abu Faran_, _Abu Saran_, and _Ibn Husam_."

"And do we know Manny, Moe, and Jack?"

"They're the names of the Palestinian prime minister's three sons."

"Mukarat?" Leo questions. "The Arabic?"

"Date, time, and name of a restaurant in Landstuhl," Kate replies, handing him a slip of paper.

"What are we supposed to do?"

"Somebody has a message they couldn't phone into State."

- - -

_Afternoon finds him bored to death, sitting beside Andi beneath a wide green awning on the edge of a dust-strewn courtyard. They sip small glasses of something vaguely fruity, watching people come and go through the market in front of the hotel. He's forgotten how terrible daylight feels when he's exhausted._

"_D'you ever think…?"_

_Josh trails off, biting his lip, eyes focused somewhere in the distance._

"_Think what?" Andi prompts after a moment._

"_Nothin'."_

"_No, come on; you were gonna say something."_

_She shifts, turning in the seat to better face him. Josh shakes his head dismissively, a reticent half-smile sliding along his mouth. She leans her head on a hand, eyes glancing over his face._

"_What's up?"_

"_It's nothing," he replies. "Forget it; it's stupid."_

"_Josh…"_

"_I just…" he sighs, trailing off, and she can see the lines under his eyes dig deeper at this angle._

"_You look exhausted."_

"_Yeah."_

"_Is it—are you like…?"_

_She makes random guesses in her head, the unfinished thoughts never quite making it off her tongue. Grasping haphazardly at evaporating straws, Andi leans in conspiratorially with something she think might be close._

"_Are you…in-between about things?"_

_He gives her a long, unreadable look._

"_One way of putting it, I guess."_

_With as much innocence as she can muster, she asks, "Donna…things?"_

_His sidelong glance is too quick, the snapping down of blinds before she can look deeper._

"_Not really. It's more job-related."_

"_How so?"_

_He doesn't answer, looking down at his knees, picking at a hole in the cushion._

"_You know, Toby made me promise that I'd stick it out. He's still pissed from Will's brush-off and…a little about Sam, too, I guess."_

_Josh gives her a fleeting grin, a brief glance, but then his fidgety attention is focused back on the thready orange cushion beneath them._

"_Josh, you're…"_

_It dawns on her slowly, and Josh avoids her shocked gaze, staring away again._

"_Josh, are you thinking about quitting your job?"_

_His silence provides no reassurance._


	11. Chapter 10: The Stormy Present

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** Sorry for the long hiatus, and for the shortness of this chapter. I've entered a new place in my life: senior year. This means college applications, scholarships, tests, jobs, and a whole boatload of crap that's going to keep me busy. However. I will _never_ give up on this story. It may take me a while to finish, but I know exactly where it's going and what will happen between. Thank you all for your continued patience and support.

**Chapter Ten: The Stormy Present**

"Harrison."

"Nope."

**3:20 PM**

"McKinley."

**Memorial Day**

"McKinley _did_ throw out the first pitch at a Senators' game, but only as governor."

Toby considers, fingers running over the roll of tape in his hand. Jed waits in utter silence behind them, pensive and wishing himself elsewhere.

"Taft?" Toby ventures at last.

"First one to throw out the first pitch, William Howard Taft in 1910," Charlie confirms, tossing the ball up, catching it gently in his mitt.

"Well, I hope they made Fatty practice," Jed snaps, and the elevator arrives mercifully at their floor. He steps out in a wide hall and eyes the window beside them with trepidation.

"Here?" he questions.

"We figured you'd rather not share this moment with history," Charlie shrugs.

"You don't think the China Room would be better?"

Toby slaps a strip of tape on the ground, shooing Charlie to the far end of the hall. Jed takes the vest, struggling into it with irritation.

"This has got to be one of the highlights."

"Remember to follow through, sir," Toby says. The president answers with a hatred-filled glower, snatching the ball from the communication director's outstretched hand. Toby moves back against the wall, stifling a smirk.

Jed steps back onto the tape, winds up, and pitches. The ball crashes against the floor, dents the wall, and rolls gently to Charlie's feet.

"Not a word, Ziegler."

- - -

_CJ spends the first three days avoiding Josh's half of the bullpen at all costs. She spends the mornings watching Toby flit in and out of Josh's office, irritated, hands full of left-behind briefings. By the afternoon he's always two degrees from boiling, so she takes some small measure of pity on him and sends Carol over to help._

_Wednesday arrives without herald, and CJ can feel the guilt gnawing at her concentration._

_It's late when she finally decides to call—too late to look up the time difference, too late to care about what she'll say._

_The concierge apologizes, oily voice slithering against CJ's ear as she leaves a short message._

"_Just, you know, just ask her to call as soon as she can."_

"_Is it an emergency?"_

"_No," CJ admits._

"_I will tell her," he says. The dial tone cracks against her ear, and CJ lets the phone slide from her fingers._

- - -

"Can I get you anything?"

Sam blinks slowly, dazed, and looks up at the stewardess.

"No, thanks," he replies hesitantly. "I'm fine."

"Ma'am?"

"Some tonic water, perhaps," Sylvia sighs, ceding to Sam's pleading gaze. The stewardess smiles at them as she pours the drink, and Sam waits until she's gone to speak.

"Someone might be sent to meet us at the airport, but I don't think they'll bother. We should just head straight to the base and get a hotel room later; maybe we can just stay in the hospital room. The doctor wouldn't give me any information over the phone, but I think—"

"Sam."

Sylvia balances the cup against her lips, reaching over to curl a steady hand through Sam's shaking fingers.

"It'll be alright."

"You can't—"

"We'll deal with it when it comes," she says, snapping down on his fear. "It all happened so fast, Sam. You can't plan for that."

"We can try."

"No, Sam," she says. "You can't."

Sam turns and looks out the window once more, fingers jittering on the edge of the armrest.

- - -

"_They're in alphabetical order, Toby."_

"_They're not."_

"_I made sure they were."_

"_Well, they're not anymore."_

"_Look, Toby—"_

"_Would you just—?"_

_He cuts himself off with a frantic wave of one hand. Charlie leans forward, daring a glance into Josh's office._

"_Toby, what the hell did—?"_

"_Would you just fix it?"_

_Charlie eyes the damage once more._

"_Man, I do _not _get paid enough."_

_But, diligently, he sets about replacing the knocked-over piles, stacking Donna's carefully typed memos back in their correct folders. Toby holds his livid pose for another minute before bending down and helping._

"_You heard from them?"_

"_No. You?"_

"_Just Andi."_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Says it's pretty nice there. Weather-wise."_

"_Good."_

_They carry on in silence for some time after, recognizing the mutual distaste for small talk. Charlie is careful, methodical in his rearranging, sorting by name, purpose, and destination. Toby does little more than slide papers along the floor._

"_Y'know," Toby says, a half-grunt that could almost qualify as a chuckle, "CJ thinks that they're—that they…"_

_But he gives up before the words have even finished forming in his mind, blown out on a defeated breath. Charlie begins to separate the memos by recipient, fingers flying over semi-crumpled printouts._

_The joke's not funny anymore, interest dried out, and Toby gives up his half-assed show of support, sliding back on his heels, letting Charlie pick up the rest of this mess._

- - -

They've moved closer, but it's done little to improve his throw.

"Okay," Toby says slowly. "That was better."

"I hit the wall."

"It had good distance," he replies. "Now just aim for the guy with the mitt."

"Why didn't we cancel?" Jed asks, doubled over, catching his breath.

"I was just wondering the same thing."

Charlie receives a glare for this, and he grins, knowing the president was aiming for his head that time.

"I could write a hundred speeches, and we'd never come close to the sight of you up on that mound."

"Yeah, that's me: all-powerful, bending the will of the world by my mere presence."

The ball goes wild again, and a lamp shatters in a perfect halo of glass.

"Wow," Toby says, whistling. Jed's too tired to even bother with the glares anymore.

Time passes less rapidly when he isn't being assaulted by military briefings, and slowly, Jed begins to back up. He knows he'll do better when his head is the same place as the rest of him, but distraction's been the drug of choice today. He winces with the next throw.

"Sir, Congress is going to pass a resolution."

"Telling me to blow the hell out of the boogeyman?"

"There is a sentiment that something should be done now."

Jed glances at Toby; the other man stands against the wall, tone careful, eyes focused anywhere but his boss.

"You think I don't want to do something right now?"

"Do you?" Toby counters. Jed sighs, thoughts melding with the reality around him. The snap of the ball in his hand is a jolt of repressed anger.

"Of course I—of _course_ I want to bomb!"

Charlie vaults left, catches the ball on the edge of his glove. It lands back in Jed's with a dull _thwock_.

"I wanna blow the hell out of them!"

"_Them_ who, sir?" Toby asks, picking at the edge of the tape, looking down at the carpet.

"Gaza. The West Bank. Hell, let's just take out the whole damn Arabian Peninsula; get rid of the problem altogether."

The ball flies faster and straighter.

"It's what the country wants," Toby says, dropping the tape back to his side, looking up at the president. Jed casts him a glance and grunts with the next throw.

"Sure. Hell, it's practically the American way."

He gives a savage, angry sneer.

"And who cares if it's _exactly_ what those lunatics want. They push, we push back, and they've got the holy war they've been praying for with a thousand-and-one recruits to take the fight to the big kid on the other side of the Atlantic!"

Charlie winces with the next catch, staying gladly to the outside of this confrontation.

"It's like bad Shakespeare," Jed sighs. The ball hits Charlie's mitt with an angrier thump. "And they're just waiting for me to play my role and chuck a big fat one right down the middle."

His pitch is slow this time, but it lands in the outstretched glove.

"And in the middle of all this, I can't—I can't get this damn Emerson quote out of my head. 'In life's myriad affairs, a decision must be made. The best, if possible, but any is better than none.'"

Charlie swings back, tosses a lazy pop.

"I don't know what to do," Jed admits with a half-shrug. "Twenty hours ago, I was having tea with Sylvia Lyman, _convinced_ I'd killed her son."

"And now?" Toby asks quietly.

"And now I've got two dead congressmen and one dead admiral. I can't lean towards Leo 'cause he's too damn busy worrying about Josh, and I­—"

They pause; he begins to move slowly backward.

"Josh is a son to me. You all are, in ways, but Josh…two times I've put him in danger. Final time I got him dead."

"He's not dead, sir," Toby says. Jed swings his arm, rotates his shoulder to loosen it up a bit.

"I'm the guy in the office, Toby. _I_'m the one who's gonna be remembered for this. I'm the one who…"

He sighs, barely misses this time.

"I'm the one who sends other peoples' kids to die."

Toby goes back to examining the roll, leans against the wall. Jed backs further; his feet touch the tape, and Charlie cocks back another smooth pitch.

"A decision must be made, sir," Toby says carefully. "The right one, if we can assign black-and-white labels to this mess, but…"

"But a decision must be made."

He looks down, remembers to follow through this time.

"Your country needs it, sir."

The ball lands, soft and square, in the center of Charlie's mitt, and Jed pulls off his glove.

"Thanks, guys," he says. "Think I've got it now."

- - -

_Iota's crowded as always, and Toby's just glad she didn't make a pass at inviting Will._

_CJ tosses her coat over a chair, turning back towards the restrooms. She doesn't need to tell him her order._

_She's back at the table when he finally gets the drinks, fingers tapping along the edge of the table. She's looking at the singer, but her eyes are unfocused, distant. Toby sets down her drink silently and slides into his own chair._

_CJ mumbles something, fingers splayed through her hair._

"_What?"_

"_I said the band sounds good tonight," she snaps, and then sighs. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"_

"_Yeah," Toby says, crumbling peanut shells between his fingers. CJ turns back to the stage, swirling the little paper umbrella along the edge of her drink._

_Droplets cling to the surface of his bottle, a halo of pooled water forming at the bottom, and Toby wonders when they all stopped talking to each other._

- - -

They have no bags to retrieve. Sam directs the cab driver to Landstuhl in stilted German, almost forgetting to pay at all.

Sylvia spends the ride pressed against the far door, fingers dancing over the handle until the driver's pointed glare stops her. Sam slumps against his window, blinking at the lights of Ramstein as they streak past.

The Mosses, somehow, have beat them there, perched fretfully in the hospital's lobby. A half-torn English-to-German dictionary lies on the seat beside Kay, and her face melts in relief as Sam steps out of the cab.

They've never met, not once, but there's something like recognition in Sylvia's eyes when she finally sees the Mosses. Steve and Kay rise from their bench as Sam holds the door for her.

The connection comes quickly and runs deep, and neither mother needs to say a word as they embrace.

- - -

_The rest of the week pitters out in a dissatisfying fizzle. Toby finishes nine of the fifteen projects Josh left behind; CJ manages to forget about her unanswered message to Donna by Friday._

_They function as a small, cohesive unit, even now, cogs and wheels jutting perfectly against each other, turning endlessly. But the clockwork is slowing, stilted, the edges fraying and rusting out._

_It's better, then, that they don't talk._

- - -

The stadium throbs with life as they enter, pulsing and vibrating, and Jed nervously twists the wedding band around his finger.

He can't hide the grimace as he strides down the empty hall, Secret Service thick on his flank. Every intersection becomes instantly fraught with peril, but Jed soldiers on, trying to ignore the pound of the cheering crowd above and the look on Leo's face.

"How did it go with Mukarat?" he asks, directing the first question to Kate.

"The contact was legit," Kate says. "We had an agent meet with them at a restaurant not too far from the base."

"And?"

"All the hallmarks of a back-channel overture."

"I thought the prime minister was in the chairman's pocket."

He glances to Leo for confirmation, but his chief's staring stoically at the wall behind them.

"So did we," Kate replies. There's a manic glint in her eyes, a light at the end of their dark, hollow tunnel, and Leo shifts his feet, sighing. "Seems he realizes unilateral Israeli action with leave his people with less land than they'd get negotiating."

"We're talking about _king-making_," Leo cuts in at last.

Kate ignores this.

"We're talking about separation from a leader with whom there can be no peace. The Israelis won't even sit down with Farad."

"But they'll go around with Mukarat?" Leo scoffs.

"We've spoken to Ambassador Galit."

Jed considers this, fidgeting with the edge of his cuffs.

"How would this work?" he asks.

The crowd noise grows, echoing through the hall. They almost have to shout.

"We broker secret talks with the Israelis, show them Mukarat's credible," Kate says. "They pull back, take steps to bolster Mukarat by releasing prisoners…"

"We're grasping at straws here, sir," Leo sighs again, turning his back to Kate, meaning to shut her from the conversation. "This kind of intervention into Palestinian politics—"

"The Israelis are willing to sit down with Mukarat privately," Kate continues, cutting him off, ignoring the condescension his tone, "as long as we can assure Chairman Farad won't be involved in any way."

"Okay," Jed nods slowly, absorbing. Leo waits impatiently, fingers tapping against his thigh. "Where are you on this?"

Kate takes her time, conscious of Leo's glare.

"Both options have risks."

He nods again.

"Yeah. Give us a minute?"

- - -

_Notepad balanced across his knees, Toby uses his left hand to bounce a ball against the window. It's shop-stuff, he knows, a few remarks for an upcoming photo-op, but Toby doesn't mind the distraction._

"_Hey."_

_Will knocks gently, sticking his head partially through the door. Best to stay out of the line of fire._

"_I just came for the—"_

"_There," Toby says shortly, indicating a stack of boxes beside the door with a shift in his tone. Will nods, grabbing up the folder._

"_You heard from Josh or Donna?"_

"_Do you care?"_

"_Why would I ask if I didn't?"_

_Toby catches the ball and looks up, face closed. Too much has changed to ever go back, and Will sighs._

"_Whatever. Thanks for the thing."_

_Toby gives one terse nod and returns to the notepad, to the ball whapping against the window. Will doesn't move._

"_Y'know, Toby, I wasn't—"_

_The muscles in Will's jaw twitch, and he steels himself to continue._

"_I wasn't trying to abandon you. I just thought…"_

_Toby is, as always, unreadable, giving nothing away and getting nothing in return._

"_I don't know what I thought," Will sighs. He hefts his bag, gesturing with the files. "Thanks for the stuff for Manhattan. I'll see you around."_

_Toby watches him leave in silence, defeated._

- - -

Kate wanders away, passing two Secret Service agents, the blasting echo of the crowd through the cement hall leading out to the field.

"You know," Leo begins, careful. Jed stares at the ground between them. "On May 13, the day before Israeli Independence Day, the TV stations broadcast the names of every soldier who's ever fallen for the country. A name flashes on the screen for a second or two, then the next name appears. You go to bed, you wake up—the names are still flashing. It takes 24 hours. That's how they observe Memorial Day."

"Yeah, and they keep firing missiles into Gaza; we encourage it—"

Jed looks up, angry, glaring.

"How long until that broadcast lasts 48 hours? Or 72?"

"How many times have we tried negotiating—?"

"Dammit, Leo—"

"Your priority should be the security of this country!" Leo shouts. "I think you're gun-shy, sir. This is the most important moment of your presidency, and you're going to _blow_ _it_ because you're human. You're a father who almost lost his—"

"You think this is about Zoey?"

Leo's jaw is set. The ceiling above them shakes with the pounding of thousands of feet.

"You're damn right it's about Zoey, and it's about Ellie and Liz and Mallory and _Josh_ and _Donna_, too!"

Leo flinches.

"It's about bombs in Penn Station, in Macy's, in Starbucks. Bombing Gaza could be the most dangerous move this country has made in two centuries!"

"Or not!"

"In 75 years we'll know whether we're right or wrong, but no one standing here today can tell me that with any certainty, Leo."

He just stands there, staring him down, a solid wall for Jed to break against. A moment passes between them before Jed turns away.

"You got the ball?"

He ambles up the stairs with agents in tow, voice fading as he enters the field. Leo watches dispassionately, jumping suddenly at the ring of his cell phone.

"Yeah."

"_The chairman's on TV, thanking us for inviting him to the negotiations."_

"What?"

He shoves one knarled finger into his other ear, pressing on the phone, trying to hear.

"_Chairman Farad!"_ Toby shouts over the line. "_He's on TV; he's thanking us for inviting him and Prime Minister Mukarat to a summit with the Israelis."_

"We didn't invite him!" Leo shouts back, reeling. "We haven't even formally invited _Mukarat_!"

"_He's publicly accepted our invitation to Camp David."_

The phone slides down his shoulder, head whipping around to the tunnel.

"Jed!"

His shout is drowned in a sea of screams.


	12. Chapter 11: In the Room

**Title:** Confluence

**Author:** freak-pudding

**Disclaimer:** _The West Wing_ and all associated articles are the sole property of Aaron Sorkin and NBC. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Tragedy, media mix-ups, and a living funeral. Just how much is it going to take? JD AU-S.5 ending

**Author's Notes:** First of all, I apologize for the extremely huge amount of time between updates, and for the relative shortness of this chapter. There's a reason behind my disappearance, but its validity and importance is entirely up to you. I hope I didn't lose too many readers on this one, but for those of you that care: In mid-January, I tried to drive myself and my sister off the road. Since then, I've been taking medication for severe aggression, and I've been battling the worst depression I've yet had. I've come very close to doing some very, very stupid things, but I think I'm finally coming out on the other side of this. I'll be graduating from high school in a few days, and then I'll have more time to devote to this. _Confluence_ will be finished. As for me publishing any other _West Wing_ fiction—that's currently in the air. My focus has shifted to my original works, and to several other fandoms. This may be my first and last WW story.  
Also note, I've made small corrections/changes to the preceding chapters. Anyway, on to the story:

**Chapter Eleven: In The Room**

"We can't let the chairman bully us into having this summit, sir."

**10:19 AM**

"I thought you wanted peace talks."

**Day of the Funeral**

"I think we should, sir; yes, but—"

"Who's going to know?" Jed wonders, squeezing Abbey's hand.

"People at State, the Pentagon."

"And the Israelis know," Kate says, happy for once that they're on the same side. "If we try to force them into hosting the summit, they may leak it."

"And that's bad?" Abbey says mildly. "The chairman wants a peace summit. Isn't that a start?"

Jed gives a soft grunt of agreement, eyes on the highway whizzing past.

"He invited himself to Camp David. What's he going to do next—raid the icebox at the Council of Foreign Relations?"

"Sir, we need to focus on military action—retaliation for the deaths of our people in Gaza."

Jed and Leo share a long, unreadable look, Abbey glancing calmly between the two.

"I've got a guy who says he wants to come to a peace table, and I've got a table," Jed shrugs.

"Tell Farad he can have his summit if it doubles as his retirement party," Leo scoffs. "I'll spring for the watch."

Jed bites down on the forthcoming retort, looking back out the limousine's window.

"What do I need from him to get the Israelis to Camp David?" he asks, tossing the question in Kate's general direction.

"He'd have to promise to arrest the leaders of Hamas, put the Palestinian security services under Mukarat and the moderates, and adopt a new PLO charter that gives up the portion of Palestine he's going to recognize as Israel."

Abbey smirks.

"Plus the watch?"

They pull to a smooth stop outside a modest chapel. The funeral is here; they won't be able to make it to the burial in Arlington. With a sigh, Jed slides out the door, offering a hand to help his wife out.

"Mr. President?"

Charlie appears, black suit and tie, ready to guide them inside.

"Sir."

Jed turns back to Kate, and she sighs, discouraged.

"I feel as if my counsel is largely responsible for this mess."

"I get lots of counsel, Ms. Harper," he smiles, a wan and disheartened gesture. "What I choose to do with it is my responsibility."

He doesn't give her a chance to respond, walking authoritatively into the church.

- - -

"_Toby says that he can't find the Schilling memo."_

"_Tell him Charlie has it," Donna replies._

"You _tell him."_

"_You're e-mailing him."_

"_So?"_

"_It's wasteful to just write one sentence."_

_Andi gives a long-suffering sigh, clawing her laptop back across the table._

"_Charlie…has…Schilling…memo."_

_She types hunt-and-peck, teeth chewing over her lower lip._

"_Josh?"_

"_Hmm?"_

"_You got any three- or four-word messages for Toby that you're too lazy to send yourself?"_

_She tosses a ball of paper at the back of his head, just visible over the arm of the couch. Donna gives her a withering look, picking absently at the binding of her book._

"_What the hell does he need the Schilling memo for?"_

"_Wrap up for the trade deal," Donna says._

"_What—we already finished the last few—"_

"_It's in markup, Josh," she snaps._

"_I should be there."_

"_And what would you do?"_

"_I don't know," Josh snaps back. "At least I'd be there."_

_Andi quirks an eyebrow, her glance quick in the empty space between them._

- - -

CJ spends the morning watching FOX news and eating donuts with Will.

"CJ, Ted Harper called from _60 Minutes_—says he's got a congressional widow on camera demanding the president avenge her husband's death."

Carol pushes the last out on half an eye roll, certain it sounds more stupid out loud than it did in her head.

"Which one?" Will asks.

"Uh…Thomas Korb's."

"They'll want the president to respond," he says, swiveling back around to CJ.

"And do what?" she replies, dropping her hand heavily, powdered sugar dribbling over her memos. "Defend his tie-dyed, hippy-dippy, blowin'-in-the-wind, peacenik pipe dream while the grieving widow rends her garments?"

"You didn't get any sleep at all," Will marvels, sliding back down on the couch.

"Get me some time with the president when he gets back?"

"Yeah," Carol nods and exits.

CJ drops her legs from the edge of the desk, sighing, turning on her computer.

"Oh, did I tell you?"

"What?"

"Vice president offered me my job back."

She raises an eyebrow.

"What'd you say?"

"I'd think about it. I'm technically still his chief; he forgot to make it official."

"Well, I guess we all had more important things to think about yesterday."

"Today, too," Will agrees. "I told him I'd think about it."

"You really shouldn't," CJ grins, dismissing him.

- - -

"_It came through the kitchen, there."_

_He points, and Josh turns obediently, shading his eyes._

"_One half-hour later, my wife would have been serving breakfast to our children."_

"_See, when the Palestinians get a hit," Colin begins, hand slipping from Donna's arm, gesturing, "what they do is secure the launchers, and that way they can be sure to repeat the strike."_

"_You must live in constant fear," Donna marvels, pulling at the knot of her scarf. The woman surveys her coldly._

"_Our soldiers will find the mortar."_

"_You replace the tile roof with concrete and pray."_

_The man's arm around his wife's shoulders seems so natural, so loving, and Donna takes a half-step away from Colin._

"_You don't ever think about leaving?" Josh asks. "Y'know, there's talk in Israel—"_

"_God wants us in this place," the woman says sharply. "It is our divine, moral obligation to be here."_

_The husband is softer, placating._

"_If we give in to the Arabs," he explains, "they'll take more and more, and eventually we'll all end up in Tel Aviv."_

_Josh shifts, glancing around. The air is viscous with a veneer of suburban perfection, a glow that magnifies the sun glinting off the house's windows. He stands furthest from the group, one foot on the gravel road._

"_This is the safest environment," the woman says confidently. Donna glances back, catches Josh's stare, and they both look away. "In Jerusalem, when you see an Arab, you don't know. Here, you know, and you shoot him."_

_She gives them another critical glare before turning back into the darkness of her house._

"_Excuse us," the man offers, leaving them alone in the yard._

- - -

"I'm not bombing all of the Middle East just because it'll make us feel better."

"They're on your side."

"Really?" Jed snaps. "I was having a hard time believing that a minute ago."

Leo steels himself, pausing only a second before the stairs.

"Sir, you can't delay any longer."

Jed changes tactics, knowing it's cruel but unable to help himself.

"Has Sylvia called yet?"

Leo flinches, but he expected this, and he bats the question aside.

"I'll ask Margaret."

Jed sighs and starts up the stairs.

"Sir, there's nothing left," Leo calls after him.

"I'm not prepared to accept that."

"You're going to have to, sir."

And there's nothing to say that won't shove them away from where they should be, so Jed sighs and glances up the stairs.

"The ambassador's waiting," is all he can offer.

- - -

_They have dinner and another meeting with Colin. Donna shows him the e-mail she's writing to Leo, but Josh looks away, uninterested._

"_Do you want me to tell him anything?"_

_His mouth opens, ready with a classic quip, but his eyes fall on Colin's arm, resting casually over the back of her chair. His mouth snaps closed; he lets out a sigh._

"_No. Just tell him I'm fine."_

- - -

"We need to get to Alicia DeSantos."

Leo gives a slow nod, one ear on CJ's briefing, the other not really on Toby.

"_I'm sure the Republican leadership is going to do what they always do—express their unanimous and unqualified support for the president and his policies."_

The laughter is polite and canned. Toby taps his foot impatiently.

"Leo?"

"_It's not just the Republicans. The Democrats are saying they don't understand why the president's wringing his hands while the Israelis send tanks."_

"Yeah, I'm listening."

Toby rolls his eyes.

"How's she doing?"

"_We're working closely with the leaders of both parties on this. They know the president is determined to act."_

"_No, they don't, CJ, and neither do the American people. Gallup is saying 82 support immediate military action in response to Gaza."_

"Okay," Leo sighs, "considering she's human chum."

He can't even stop moving, pacing the perimeter of the room in a rapid blur. Leo watches from deep within his chair.

"We need to get to Mrs. DeSantos."

Leo flicks off the TV.

"The president doesn't want us holding out a grief-stricken widow like some political lawn ornament."

"As opposed to—"

"_Not_ today, okay, Toby? I've got enough problems with—"

"What's the president doing, Leo? A summit?"

It would've been easier to take if he'd been yelling, but Leo's had no such luck lately.

"He's already got a Nobel Prize. What's he need a second one for? _Bookends_?" Toby scoffs, and stops, toe kicking against the wood floor. Margaret appears in the doorway.

"The speaker's here."

"Alright, let Debbie know, and show them into—"

"Yeah," Margaret says slowly. "He brought half of Congress with him. Don't think they'll all fit."

- - -

"_Looks like your boy's got himself in a bit of trouble."_

"_My boy?" Josh repeats._

"_Bartlet," Colin says, syllables staccato._

"_He's been President Bartlet for six years; hasn't been _boy _for about 50."_

_Donna drops the fan into her lap with a sigh. Josh kicks at the dirt beneath his foot, pacing._

"_And anyway," he says, "what trouble?"_

_Colin grins hungrily._

"_You really think the Israelis would ever sit in a room with Mukarat? Let alone the chairman. Why should they?"_

"_We're not here about a summit," Josh mutters._

"_Yeah, you keep saying that."_

_Donna glares at him, but Josh drops his gaze, giving her nothing to go on._

"_Where're you from?" he asks, turning to Colin._

"_Belfast."_

"_Yeah, 'cause you guys are really the model on how to work things out over here."_

_Colin looks somewhat offended._

"_Yeah, actually…"_

"_Oh, will the two of you just stop?"_

_Colin smiles at her, teeth white, face streaked in sweat. Josh barely glances up._

"_Just friendly arguing," Colin says, and Donna turns away, shoves up and off the seat._

"_I need water," she says darkly. She thinks about budget surpluses and wonders if this is what Grandpa meant by 'big government wastes.'_

_When she comes back, they're at it again._

"_The Israelis have every right to protect themselves from terrorists."_

_She stops in the doorway, watching, wondering where the spark has gone. Josh attends to the argument as an afterthought, mind elsewhere from Colin and the patch of dirt he's been staring at this whole time._

_And she can't help thinking about CJ again, thinking about how many things she's done wrong lately, how she really used to like this job, like this life. How she really used to like _Josh

"_They don't occupy a force to oppress—"_

"_They're citizen soldiers," Josh replies, pausing, hand going out, "trying to keep their…"_

_He trails off, sighing, giving up. Colin leans back, head resting on his hands._

"_You Jewish?" he asks._

"_Why?" Josh snaps. "You anti-Semitic?"_

"_Anyone who thinks the Palestinians have a point is anti-Semitic."_

"_And anyone who thinks the Jews don't after being chased and exiled and persecuted for centuries is either an idiot or a fool. Probably both."_

_He's been looking out the window for a while now, and he sighs._

"_Ride's here."_

- - -

"We thought a show of unity might be helpful to the White House," Haffley snits, standing firm. Leo grimaces and pulls out a chair.

"The president's finishing something in the Oval," he says. "He'll be right with us."

"Have you been listening to the radio?"

"I've been a little busy," Leo replies, a flash of a smirk.

"Have you been listening to the radio?" Haffley demands.

"Oldies radio, traffic report…?" Toby offers, shoulder-to-shoulder with Leo on this one. Haffley's glare shifts.

"The nation's been taking the announcement of these peace talks badly. Many people believe you sent congressmen into harm's way."

"Are these the same right-wing turkey-basters that said I faked MS to get the sympathy vote in the last election?"

His humor is wildly misplaced, and Jed enters the room, face frozen in a frown. Everyone rises.

"Nice to see everyone. Please, sit down."

They don't.

"Mr. President, members of Congress were killed. Instead of seeking justice, you're typing up nametags and inviting their murders to play dodge ball at Camp David. You're ignoring the sacrifice these men made for their country."

"On the contrary, Mr. Speaker," Jed returns, "I'm trying to honor that sacrifice."

"You're appeasing terrorists by rewarding them with a peace summit," Haffley sneers, and Leo knows it's time to step in.

"If the issue here is Congressional consultation, we can assure you—"

"Mr. President, you have to go on national television, admit your mistake, and retract those invitations. You've insulted these men and their memories. This CODEL, your people on it, was a mistake from the get-go. You _have_ to put this summit back in the cereal box it came in."

"I didn't come here to play games," Jed snarls, rising. Charlie opens the door from the outside, and Jed turns back momentarily.

Haffley stiffens.

"I'm trying to find a way to make peace. And when I do, you can go on TV and explain why you're against it."

- - -

_They sit on opposite ends of the table, not speaking._

_Josh has his laptop flipped open, chin resting on a fist, eyes glazed._

"_What was that today with you and Colin?"_

_He taps something, eyes blinking slowly._

"_Josh!"_

"_What?"_

"_Did you hear me?"_

"_Yeah," he sighs, sitting up, stretching. "I chose not to reply."_

"_Why?" she demands, broiling._

"_Because I don't honestly—"_

_He stops, rubbing his face hard._

"_I don't want to do this," he says._

"_I don't give a fuck."_

_Josh looks up at her, shocked._

"_What?"_

"_I said I don't give a fuck what you want," Donna replies, getting stronger. "I'm sick of deferring to what _you _want to do."_

_Her voice lowers harshly, and they've crossed into that unspoken, forbidden gray-area._

"_I want to talk."_

- - -

"Leo, do you have a minute?"

Alexander glances at her, emotionless, and Kate steps aside.

"Yeah, sure."

She sits at the distracted gesture, queasy.

"I encouraged the president to pursue a meeting with Mukarat. I should have anticipated Chairman Farad…"

She sighs miserably, and Leo turns, listening, sympathetic.

"Did you bury a mortar shell on the roadside in Gaza two days ago?"

"No, sir," Kate admits, put out. "I just feel that, in hindsight—"

"The president heard what he wanted to hear and went where he wanted to go," Leo says sharply. "He's over 21. Don't flatter yourself, commander; you're not changing the course of history."

She rises, chastened.

"I won't waste anymore of your time."

He kicks himself in the time it takes her to reach the door.

"He doesn't like chaos."

Leo stands, leveling.

"We bomb some apartment building in Gaza or a camp in Syria—there'll be consequences. And we can't tell him what they're going to be."

Kate nods, frowning. Leo closes the distance between them. This is as close to an apology as he'll come.

"Will we get drawn into a war in the Middle East? Will suicide bombers be climbing onto buses in Passaic, New Jersey, instead of Haifa and Tel Aviv?"

Margaret knocks.

"Leo? The president's asking for you and Ms. Harper in the Oval."

He puts a hand on Kate's shoulder, steering her toward the door.

"The president's looking for answers, and we don't have them."

The door opens on Will and CJ, sitting on the couches, Toby standing back by the fireplace. Jed is wearing the floor thin behind his desk, head down, contemplative.

"No idea is too stupid or outrageous," he announces to no one in particular. "Party clowns; piñatas—I'd build a mosque out of Jello if I thought…"

He sighs, looking up at them as Charlie closes the door.

"I need ideas," he says. "New ideas. Just throw things out, and we'll see if anything comes of it."

They begin to talk.

- - -

"_So talk."_

_They stand, table between, staring each other down._

"_Why did you bring me on this trip?"_

"_Oh, for God's sake, Donna—"_

"_Answer the question._

"_What do you want me to say?" he snaps. "I wanted someone to bring me coffee in the morning?"_

"_You asshole," she says, shaking her head. "Is this supposed to make up for something?"_

"_Make up for what?"_

"_I don't know Josh; one of the million other things I could be doing with my life right now?"_

"_You wanna do something else?" Josh says, temper and tone rising. "There's the goddamn door, Donna. You're welcome to it!"_

"_Oh, but then what would _you _do? You can barely get dressed in the morning without someone there to baby-sit you!"_

"_I gave you a career! And this is how you—"_

"_Yeah, as a short-order cook! You only kept me around 'cause I knew you like your burgers burnt like hockey pucks. I'm still waiting for the spatula to—"_

"_Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to keep _you_?"_

- - -

Kate glances up, sheepish.

"_Really_ stupid ideas?"


End file.
